


there may be something there that wasn't there before.

by AquaWolfGirl



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Beauty and the Beast AU, Brief Asphyxiation, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn, The Force is Magic, The Thief and the Prince, fairytale AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-10 15:32:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5591605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaWolfGirl/pseuds/AquaWolfGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s a thief, small and lithe. Her days are spent pickpocketing and snatching from market stalls. She has the sun in her skin and the light in her smile. She is beauty.<br/>He is a prince, at war with himself. He is a mix of a man, a hybrid of containment and utter chaos. He has the night in his hair and hatred in his eyes. He is beast.<br/>She just stole from the wrong garden.<br/>“You are aware that doesn’t belong to you, are you not?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the thief.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's 5 in the morning and I'm jumping on the Reylo train. My apologies, loyal Poe/Rey readers, but it seems this pairing has captured my attention for the time being. After my several attempts at writing the other story I'm working on, I wanted an AU. And somehow this was born. It's vague so far, how many chapters it'll be, but I'm working on getting an outline and an estimate up soon. Hope you enjoy!

The marketplace is loud, and busy. For as long as she can remember, it always has been. The sounds and bustling cloak her movements. They disguise the slip of her hand as she walks by a stall, sweeping a small ivory figurine into her hand. 

The figure is warm after sitting in the bright sun for hours. She can feel the smoothness of the ivory, the subtle softness as she clutches it in her palm and walks calmly away from the stall, the seller nonethewiser. She smirks, running her thumb over the hump of the creature's back. She can feel the soft ridges there to represent its fur, and idly wonders what she'd just taken. Ivory’s different than stone, and she finds she prefers when she steals the ivory figures. Not just because they get her a heavier bag of coins, but because there’s life in it. And she relishes in the opportunity to hold it for a few moments before she hands it in to her trader. 

She ducks beneath brightly coloured woven curtains, smiling at a small toddler who makes a grasp at her flowing shirt. She moves between the crowd like water through clasped fingers. She turns down an alleyway, tan and lithe body slipping into a small alcove between a pub and a bakery. She can smell the wasted men from the pub, their hangovers continuing into the day and their stench permeating the very stone of the establishment, but the foul smell is overrun by the bakery next door with its fresh bread and honey rolls. Sunlight drips down the crack between the two buildings, giving her just enough light to analyze her prize. 

It’s a small thing, not very heavy and not entirely masterly crafted. An apprentice’s work, perhaps. It fits in the palm of her hand easily, perhaps designed with a child in mind. She can see where the craft isn't fantastic, the edges not quite smooth and material cracked slightly, but it'll get her a fair price anyway just by being ivory. She turns the small carved hare over in her hand, feeling the small space between its long ears. Perhaps seven silver, maybe a gold if she’s lucky. But it’s enough for a pint at one of the low-brow inns on the other side of town, and maybe a room for the night. 

If not, she knows which barns are locked, and which ones aren’t. 

The figurine goes into the satchel at her side, and she slips out from between the stone buildings. The smell of the bakery is too tantalizing to ignore, and she approaches the young man standing outside of the shop with a copper in her hand. He gives her a honey roll in exchange for it, and she eats the treat on the way back to the market. Honey drips from her fingers, making its way to her wrist before her tongue catches it, licking the trail up to the pastry. She does this several times until the treat itself is gone, and then she's left to suck on her fingers as she moves between the crowds. 

It’s a Tuesday, one of the biggest shopping days - the first being Wednesday for the mothers who drag their children along, and then Saturday as people spend the gold they earned over the week. Tuesdays are filled with traders from other parts, filling up the stalls usually reserved for fruit with exotic wares ripe for the taking. She sees bright fabrics and hammered bowls and exotic gems. She recalls stealing a jade elephant one day. That had gotten her a week's room at the Silver Horse, and two bowls of porridge a day. She loved that week, living in the lap of luxury thanks to a trader who hadn't been warned of her yet.

The traders from far away don’t know her name like the locals. They aren’t as careful with her, and she takes advantage of their ignorance. 

As soon as the honey's sucked from her fingers, she scans the crowd. There's a stall selling more figurines, but the trader is watching them like a hawk. She watches as he reverently runs his fingertips over the head of an intricately carved owl, and shakes off the urge to steal from there. That would land her in the dungeon for a night, for certain, even if she gave it back with an apology. 

She turns, making her way to the left. There’s a metalworking stall just around the corner. She’s been watching it all afternoon, waiting for the best time to strike. She kneels beside it, in between the stall and the one next to it. The silks of the stall to the right conceal her slightly, and she lets her eyes shift upwards. There's a small metal bowl, hammered and etched with swirls and symbols. The seller’s in the middle of a demonstration, rough hands showing a pitcher to a curious mother with a baby boy on her hip who's more interested in the bowl's shine than it's craftsmanship. It’s the perfect opportunity. She shifts on the balls of her feet, bouncing in her boots as she reaches up and -

“Rey!” 

Rey curses under her breath. She ducks back down as the trader turns in her direction, frowning at the booming voice that practically echoes across the crowd. She turns, seeing the white flash of the royal guard uniform and then her friend's smile as he sees her again. She stands, trying to play it off like she's examining the silks of the next stall, before she turns and meets the man's gaze. 

“Finn!” she calls, acting surprised to see him to help with her act. 

She moves towards him, bumping shoulders with shoppers and keeping one hand firm on her bag at all times. He’s grinning, like he hasn’t just robbed her of her well, opportunity for robbing, and she glares at him as she gets in his space, tilting her face up towards his. He's taller than her in those standard boots of his, heeled for the saddle of the horse he has now. She's two inches shorter than him, anyways, but she feels so much smaller than she used to beneath his taller and broader frame. 

“Why did you do that?! I had it all set up!” she hisses beneath her breath. He blinks at her in confusion, and opens his mouth to answer when another voice interrupts his start of "Wha-"

“Do what?” 

She turns to see their friend, Poe, walking towards them. The two men stand out like sore thumbs in the middle of the marketplace, their royal guard uniforms white and clean and almost shining in their brilliance. She almost feels bad at the risk they're taking to see her, moving out between training sessions just to exchange words with her. Nothing is clean here. Everything’s covered in dust and mud and filth, including her. She resists the urge to press her hand to Finn’s clean tunic, just to see if she could dirty it up out of spite. 

“I saw you and I called out to you, what’s the big deal?” Finn asks, frowning down at her. 

“That metal bowl,” she hisses at him, gesturing vaguely towards the stall. “Could get me two gold, at least.” 

Poe stands up on his toes, eyes following her gesture. He raises an eyebrow. He looks down at her. “That’s maybe five silver,” he explains. “You know tin doesn’t go for much.” 

“At least it would’ve been something,” she mutters.

Finn has the decency to look a bit ashamed at his actions. “Sorry, Rey,” he says, and she nods, accepting it immediately. She can't be mad at Finn - nobody could ever be mad at Finn. He's like a pup she can't set down, not quite yet - probably not ever, if she really thinks about it. She offers him a smile to soothe him, and the resulting grin she receives is almost blinding. 

She's so busy sating Finn that she almost doesn't notice Poe, who's moving discreetly beside them. She feels something smooth pressed into her palm, and frowns at the feeling of something waxy beneath her fingers. She looks down to see a large candle being put into her hand by a rough, tan one. She glances up at Poe who has his eyes pointedly averted from her. She hurriedly takes the candle and puts it in her bag, along with the other one he offers her. 

“Beeswax?” she asks, almost breathless. He nods, and her heart sores as she calculates what that could get her. 

“And lavender,” he adds, and she grins at him, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him close. Candles were hard to steal, given their weight and the fact that sellers had them hanging from their stalls by their wicks. They’d fetch her a fair price at the trader. There will be no sleeping in barns tonight.

He hugs her back, and she can feel him grinning into her neck. “Those cost me a third of my salary, don’t go taking a cheap price for them,” he warns, letting her go. "They're worth at least seven gold - at least!"

“I won’t,” she assures him, beaming up at him and thanking God that she had friends who not only understood her situation, but helped her as well. 

“See you at The Silver Horse?” he offers, raising one dark eyebrow. Beside him, Finn becomes visibly excited at the thought of having a night out. “We’ve been training hard enough that the Queen’s letting us have a night off.” 

She nods eagerly. A few moments ago she would've hesitated, thinking about the amount she has in her purse, but with the candles and ivory in her purse she knows she can afford a pint, at least. Probably two, and not of the cheap stuff she usually gets. “Seven?” she asks.

Poe shakes his head. “Eight. Training ends at half past seven.” 

“Eight,” she confirms, grinning and giving him one more hug. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“I’d rather you sell candles than, well, you know,” he mutters, clapping her on the back before turning to Finn. They leave her behind, Finn giving her one last wave before they disappear into the crowd. 

Her hand sneaks into her bag finds the smooth wax, thumb brushing across the surface. 

She did know. There aren’t any pretty options for her, in terms of life. No knowledge of her parents and a limited upbringing means limited opportunities, dripping down mainly to theft and prostitution. While the men could join the royal guard, she was restrained to the streets. She was lucky enough to have friends who could help her, who knew her plight and offered her what they could when they were able. Poe hates it when she tells them she'll have to warm a man's bed at some point, and presses small things into her palm when he gets the chance. They're little things, probably trash from the castle - broken necklaces and baubles, a spare glove that has lost its pair but has a few gems sewn in or fur on the wrist. But they keep her afloat as she moves her way through this life of theft and trading.

She turns, heading back into the crowds, eyes scanning the stalls for sellers deep in a transaction.


	2. the prince.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re going to have to answer her at some point,” Hux says, one slim eyebrow raised.  
> “And why is that?” He keeps his voice carefully level. It’s hard, but he manages it. He can already feel his temper starting to rise like the flames in the fireplace, easily fed by Hux’s snark.  
> The other man notes the strain in his superior’s voice, but barrels forward anyway. “One of these days it will not be a letter, but an army.”

“Sir.” 

There’s the soft ‘clank’ of armor as he turns. His cloak brushes the floor, pooling around his feet as he stares into the darkness towards the voice of his second hand. It’s times like these during which he’s grateful for Hux’s paper-white skin, the paleness of the man glowing almost comically in the low light of the castle. The little light there is cuts sharp shadows along Hux’s already sharp features, making the man seem harsher than he actually is.

“Another letter,” the redheaded man says, the picture of poise and perfection as he stands before his superior, hands tucked neatly behind his back and holding a wax-sealed letter.

The armored man raises a dark eyebrow eyebrow. “Action taken?” he asks. His voice echoes slightly, booming out from the black helmet covering his head.

“The messenger was sent back without a reply. I have the letter for your disposal,” Hux explains, pulling the parchment from behind his back and offering it in his bone-white hand. 

The knight strides forward in a rush of metal and dark fabric, and snatches the delicate thing. He doesn’t even glance at it before walking over to the fire, stomping his feet with a bit more force than strictly necessary, and tossing the letter into the flames. The paper takes light immediately, the fire blazing with the new fuel and attacking the letter with a vengeance. He doesn’t even bother to watch the flames licking at the ‘Ben’ scrawled in his mother’s immaculate handwriting. 

“Anything else?” he demands, turning back to his servant. 

“You’re going to have to answer her at some point,” Hux says, one slim eyebrow raised. 

“And why is that?” He keeps his voice carefully level. It’s hard, but he manages it. He can already feel his temper starting to rise like the flames in the fireplace, easily fed by Hux’s snark. 

The other man notes the strain in his superior’s voice, but barrels forward anyway. “One of these days it will not be a letter, but an army.” 

The knight turns and walks back towards the balcony he had been on before, overlooking the rough, grey sea of the north coast. The waves are rough, as they are for most of the year, crashing against the cliffs and sending salty spray splattering against the dark rock. “So be it. We can defeat any army.”

He can hear the sharp footsteps of his second hand behind him, can sense the impatience in those sharp footsteps. “That’s not the point. You will have to face them eventually, and you know that very well.” 

The knight remains silent, idly wondering just how much of his magic he would have to use to pick Hux up and toss him over the side of the castle. It wouldn’t be very much, just a little bit of force to see that pale body fall and crunch against the rocks - 

“You are acting like a child,” Hux snarls. “Running off and sulking to your dark little room by the sea. Pathetic.”

“And you are foolish to test the temper of the man who could very easily send you over the rail and into that sea with a single thought,” Kylo growls, head turning to acknowledge the other man. Though he can’t meet the man’s eyes directly, he can see how tight the other man’s face is pulled, and smirks behind the metal. He turns back almost immediately - a clear dismissal. 

He can hear Hux huff behind him, and then he hears the clipped clacks of the man’s boots against the stone floor. 

“Will that be all, Master?” The last word is said with a decent amount of venom. 

He really shouldn’t have killed the last second hand. At least the man did as asked without snark.

“Yes,” he replies. “Leave me.” 

-

The Silver Horse is packed by the time she gets there. The line at the traders had been longer than usual, people exchanging their goods for gold before going on their way back to where they’d come from. She was in line for the better part of two hours, tapping her foot impatiently against the dirt of the street. Her feet ache, and she hopes to the heavens that Poe and Finn managed to secure a table.

The candles had gotten her a fair amount of gold, and the figurine and her other successes a bit of silver. The coin pouch is heavy in her purse as she makes her way through the darkened streets, heading towards the golden light coming from the amber-tinted windows of the pub. She can feel the soft brush of the summer night air through her thin clothes, and smiles as she quickens her pace once the pub is actually in view. Though not a heavy drinker, she’s looking forward to a pint of the good stuff. 

She pushes the door open, the iron hinges protesting with a loud squeal. Not two feet from the doorway, she finds herself in a crowd of people, and has to push through several already inebriated, portly men before she even makes her way into the main room. Though her friends had changed from their uniforms into more comfortable clothes, she can still see Poe’s wild helmet hair from the edge of the room. She squeezes through the people, using her skill of moving through crowds like water to get to their table. As she approaches, she can see that the two men already have pints and a slab of brown bread in front of them. 

“Rey!” Finn stands as she walks over. She laughs and walks into his outstretched arms, letting him embrace her. There’s something about his sheer mass and the smell of horses and whatever soap the guard used that she finds comforting, and she lets him rub her back gently before pulling back. She presses the bag of coins discreetly into his hand, letting him feel just how much she’d earned without alerting those around them that she has something of value on her person. Rey grins as his eyes widen and he waves a barmaid over, telling her to bring over a pint of their best strong ale. 

“So, how was training?” she asks as she slips into the chair across from the two guards. The chair’s rickety, the floor beneath it buckled, and the wood isn’t exactly smooth or comfortable, but it’s a seat and she’s grateful for it nonetheless.

Poe waves his hand. “Rough as always,” he replies. “Did some archery, sparring, riding. His Highness came out to watch us for a bit. He’s off to the west in the next few days.” 

“Again?” she asks. It only seemed like yesterday that the kingdom had erupted in celebration of their king returning from one of his many journeys. Han left the ruling to his wife, Queen Leia, as he explored the lands around them and some way off across the sea as well. 

Finn shrugs. “He’s always off doing something.” 

“Wouldn’t be surprised if the queen was mad at him again,” Poe explains. “It’s trickled down through the barracks that some of the things he brought back from his last trip aren’t exactly allowed through the borders. And aren’t exactly safe.” 

Rey leans forward, the table giving a protesting creak that she pays no mind to. “You’re fooling,” she mutters. “Like what?” 

Poe shrugs, taking a sip of his beer. “That’s all I heard. And that her anger’s the reason he’s heading off.”

“You’re no help,” Rey mutters, leaning back in her chair and taking a sip of her ale as soon as it’s dropped off. She takes a sip and sputters slightly, her mouth and throat much more used to the weaker stuff. It’s rare she can afford this strong of a brew. Poe smirks over the lip of his own mug while Finn looks at her, concerned. 

As soon as her throat stops aching, she talks again. With their regular meetings and mundane lives, they don’t have much to say. Finn exclaims his excitement about the possibility of a new uniform, as reported by a seamstress working on one of the orange prototypes. The white, while recognizable, was dirtying too quickly and orange was easy to spot in case help was needed in busy areas. Rey’s about to acknowledge the wisdom of the decision when she overhears words she never thought would be put together. 

“Five. Hundred. Gold.” 

She stops with the mug halfway to her lips, frowning and turning in the direction of the speaker. It’s hard to hear over the general hubbub of the pub, and she has to crane her neck to look over some of the taller heads. She’s just about given up and about to turn her attention back to her friends when she hears the voice again, the man’s accent thick and heavy.

“Yah, ya heard me. A whole five hundred. For a stupid flower.” 

Her head whips around. She’s vaguely aware of Poe and Finn watching her curiously, but her attention is focused on the three males at one of the tables behind them. They’re slumped over, obviously having had quite a few pints already - as if their posture wasn’t enough, there are several mugs stacked on the end of their table. 

“Be right back,” she mutters, waving off Finn’s concerned question of “What are you doing?” as she squeezes her way through to get to the table. 

“Supposed ta be dark as ink and some shit like that,” she hears as she approaches the table. She stands beside the men, ignoring the way two of the more drunken ones rake their eyes up and down her skinny form. She coughs slightly, getting the other, more sober man’s attention.

Once all three pairs of eyes are on her, she speaks up. “What’s this about a flower? One worth five hundred gold?” She puts her hands on her hips in an attempt to look more intimidating and larger than she actually is, and raises an eyebrow as she waits for their answer. 

“None of your business, sweetheart,” one slurs. She wants to grimace at the sight of him - an old, greying man with a oily hair and porridge in his beard. She does legitimately grimace when one of his company belches loudly, taking a sip of his ale right after. 

“I’d like to know anyway,” she explains, not backing down. 

The one who just belched looks her up and down again and smirks. “Just how badly would ya like ta know?” 

She resists the urge to visibly shudder, and opens her mouth to say something not entirely polite when she feels strong hands on her shoulders. She turns to see dark hair and a sharp jawline, and feels the hands of her friend dig into her shoulders hard enough to bruise.

“Sorry, fellows, she’s not for sale,” Poe says from behind her, and then she’s steered back towards their own table. Finn’s standing, one hand on the blade at his side as Poe pushes her back into her chair with a good amount of force. 

“Hey!” she snaps, glaring at her friend as he makes his way back around to his side of the table. She practically lunges over the table to get in his face. “I had it under control,” she insists. 

“They were looking at you like a piece of meat, you are aware of that, right?” Poe snaps right back, taking a swig of his drink. “Whatever information they had wasn’t worth whatever disease they’d give you.” 

Her heart clenches. He thought she actually would …? Did he really think that less of her? “It might’ve been,” she snarls. “They said something about a flower, and it being worth five hundred gold. I want to know what they were talking about, and I’m going to find out.” She grabs her coinpurse but is quickly stopped by Poe’s hand on her wrist. She turns to him, glaring. 

“You’re paying for drunkards to tell you a fairytale,” he mutters, pleading. He reminds her of some of the pups sold in the marketplace, eyes big and brown and pleading. “Please,” he begs. “Stay here.” 

She hesitates for a moment, half a heartbeat really, and then she’s out of her seat and standing beside the men’s table again before Poe can get up and follow her. 

The five gold coins she pulls from her coinpurse make a measly ‘clank’ on the table, but it’s a ‘clank’ nonetheless and she stands there defiantly. “Information. Now.” 

“It comes at a higher price than that, sweetheart,” the burper says. 

“I’ll tell you where you can get the cheapest whores in town,” she replies, taking the cue from their accents that they aren’t from around here. 

“Good ones? Clean?” The most sober one asks, running a beefy hand over his oily hair. 

“The best,” she replies. “I used to work there.” Meaning she washed sheets for one day and got a measly five silver for it, but they didn’t have to know that. It wasn’t exactly lying, even if it wasn’t the entire truth. She should’ve gotten five gold for what state the sheets were in, and the head woman wasn’t exactly kind with the girls not much better. She’d have no moral problems about sending the men there. 

The sober one hesitates, eyes darting to the coins on the table. “… fifteen,” he mutters, nodding his head to the coins. 

Her heart clenches ever so slightly. She doesn’t have that much. Well, she does, but then she won’t be able to pay for her drink back with Poe and Finn, and she’s taken so much from them already. “Ten,” she replies, reaching into the purse and counting out five more. She pushes them onto the table, and watches as the man’s eyes narrow in on the gold shining in the dim light of the tavern. "The best whorehouse is down by the port. Go down the main road and turn right. There's a mermaid on the sign. You can't miss it."

The description comes out all in one breath, and then she holds it as his hand reaches out and tugs them in close to his chest. He counts them out, before slipping them into his pocket. 

“It’s a legend,” he admits, leaning forward. She can smell the alcohol on his breath, but doesn’t dare pull back in fear of losing her chance. “Rumor has it there’s a castle in the far north, near the sea.” 

“Big and tall and grey and black and-“ Obviously one of his companions has had more than his fair share to drink, as he starts singing and swaying. He’s silenced with a glare from his leader, and then resorts to grumbling into his mostly empty mug. 

The sober man turns back to her. “It’s guarded by amour without men fillin’ them. It’s occupied by a black knight who grows black roses and carries a black blade.” He grips his mug and takes a hefty swig. Rey waits until he puts the mug back down, and he continues. “As I said, legend. Child’s stories. But rumor has it anyone who’s willin’ to bring back one of those roses will get a fair price for their trouble.” 

“500 gold,” she supplies, and he nods. 

“Someone we once knew went up there three months ago. Haven’t heard from him since.” He shrugs his broad shoulders. “Only just heard where he went off to last night.” 

“Do you think there’s a possibility it could be true?” 

The look he gives her is absolutely scathing. “It’s a ruse,” he explains. “A fairytale egged on by merchants who give their worst horses to those willin’ to pay to try, gettin’ rid of a useless animal and gettin’ paid in the process.”

His explanation certainly sounds more plausible than a black castle guarded by armour without bodies beneath it. She bites her lip, cheeks flooding in shame. Poe had been right. She’d just paid ten coins to be told a fairytale. 

“Thank you for the information,” she mutters. She gets a grunt in response and heads back to her own table, slipping into the seat across from her friends. Finn looks properly worried, and she notices that his hand hasn’t released the hilt of his blade yet. And Poe … Poe looks downright pissed, but also weary as she takes her mug and holds it between her hands. 

“So?” Finn asks. 

“It’s a legend,” she mumbles, more into her drink than to her friends. “A fairytale.” 

“I told you,” Poe says, though not unkindly. “Just pretty words, putting 'five hundred gold' and 'flower' together. Now, are you getting another drink or-“ 

She looks up at him, brown eyes meeting his as her hands tighten on her mug. 

"I need a horse."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies, but if you were looking for cruel and Nazi-like Hux, you won't find him here. I quite enjoyed writing him as a snarky little shit, and I truly hope you like reading him as such.  
> This chapter went through so many revisions. Gold rose turned into glowing rose turned into just plain black rose as a symbol for the emo sulking man child. I kept the slight reference to the stormtroopers though, as I like the idea of them being empty suits of armor, no mind or soul in them.


	3. the horse.

Han watches, arms crossed over his chest, as he oversees the preparations for the journey west. He sighs, letting out all of the air in his lungs before greedily filling them again with salt-thick air. He can hear sounds of children, people, animals and general life around him. A far cry from the quiet and subdued castle. Sure, there's a bustling of activity at times and people are always moving in the castle, but there's a sense of chaos here that the castle lacks. The port’s always been a hub of activity, traders and visitors moving in and out as swiftly and regularly as the tide, but it’s lot bit busier than usual with the king’s ship about to leave. There are provisions to count out, a budget to determine, crew to find. (And slightly illegal things to take back to their homelands).

“Your Highness, where would you like me to put this?”

Han turns to see a young man struggling with a small chest, and waves his hand dismissively. What's in it? He doesn't know, and he doesn't particularly care. Chewie can deal with it, if it really needs to be dealt with.

“Wherever there’s room,” he says. How should he know where to put it? The youth looks confused for a mere moment before waddling off with the chest, towards where the crew is loading the rest of the cargo into the hull with heaves and tugs, complete with matching grunts. Han leans against the barrels, bracing his hands on the top of two as he leans back. 

 _‘Your Highness’._ He almost winces at the title. He was never meant to stay in one place, to remain on land for too long. His heart is elsewhere, on the deck of a ship as it pushes through the waves. A crown is a heavy burden, which is why more often than not he tosses it to the floor and retreats to the sea. Leia was born for it, her and her perfect posture and firm voice and head held high. He, as many of the bordering kingdoms taunted, was not. He's made for the sea. 

Han leans against the barrels of … something or other (he still doesn't care), and watches as Chewie helps load the ship. His first mate on deck as well as in life, the large, furred foreign man is more often by Han’s side than not. While the kingdom’s dialect is difficult for the man, he makes up for it in gestures and expressions and general noises. It’s almost better that way, Han confesses to himself. Leia talks his ear off almost constantly, and not all of it is kind or interesting. If Chewie spoke the amount she did, Han’s sure that he would’ve cut both of his ears off long ago to avoid being talked to entirely.

He's given a few more moments of peaceful silence, his commoners clothes disguising him well as he watches the supplies being loaded. But alas, paradise is always lost at some point, and he resists the urge to groan when he hears her voice from behind him. Damn. He thought he'd escaped. 

“You’re leaving.”

It’s not a question. 

He doesn’t turn around as he replies, “Yeah, to return those things you told me to return.”

“I told you to get rid of them.”

“I _**am**_ getting rid of them. I’m returning them.”

He resists the urge to smirk at the irritated huff behind him, and turns slowly - overly dramatically, of course, just because he can - to see his wife there. There are at least five guards standing nearby, and she looks awfully out of place in her modest, dark blue gown. She’s a bright spot of color in an environment filled with dirt and sand and sails, and he feels himself drawn to her like a moth as he always has been. She’s always been the color in his world. She's also always been a pain in the ass, but he'll never tell her that.

“You know, I miss the days when you swung from the ropes and stood up by the sails,” he admits, walking towards her. "When you could handle a sword better than I could, and when you wore pants instead of whatever the hell goes under what you're wearing now."

He doesn’t miss the glare she gives him - oh, no, he couldn’t miss if it he was standing miles away. 

“And I miss when you didn’t run away when I scolded you for your stupidity,” she tells him as he stands over her. She’s always been a tiny thing, and he smirks down at her, bending to press a kiss to the hair that’s sharply pulled back in some sort of elaborate braid. He desperately misses the days when it feel in a curtain to her shoulders and he could run his fingers through it without so much of a thought, but apparently court calls for a more modest style as the queen ages. He hates the court, sometimes. He wonders idly what they think of his unruly grey hair, hardly ever washed much less brushed.

“I’m not running away,” he half-lies. “I’ll be back. Eventually. Always am.” Now that’s truth.

He can feel her resolve break bit by bit as he wraps his arms around her small frame, her frustration with him finally disappearing with a heavy sigh. “That doesn’t stop me from worrying,” she admits. “Send word when you reach land.”

“Always do.”

There’s something else. He knows there is. He’s known her long enough to know when something’s bothering her. Her teeth worry at her upper lip, and then she asks him, “Are you planning on passing by the north coast?”

“Leia, he’s-“

“He’s our son.”

“And he’s also rightfully angry with us,” he insists. “He’ll come home when he’s ready, I promise. Stop sending those letters. You know they’re only acting as tinder, if he even lights fires in that place.”

Her lip’s pulled back between her teeth again, and he presses another kiss to the top of her head. “I’ll be home. We’re leaving at dawn.”

“Dinner?” she questions.

“Depends on how long this takes,” he confesses, gesturing to the crates and chests and cages around them. “But I’ll be home.”

The kiss to his cheek is sweeter than he could’ve expected, and he grins at her. “What was that for?”

“I love you,” she sighs exasperatedly. He can’t tell whether she’s looking at him like he’s her world, or if she’s looking at him like he’s the bane of her existence. The looks are one in the same, and pretty much have been for as he’s known her.

His grin broadens. “I know.” 

-

“She’s not fast,” the merchant warns.

“I don’t need her to be fast.” Rey strokes the neck of the speckled grey mare. “I just need her to be able to walk. I’m in no hurry.”

The merchant eyes her warily. People typically want the best. The fastest, the strongest horse. But this ragged little beggar girl had come up to him and asked him for his cheapest horse. Falcon’s far from his best, but he hasn’t been able to sell her for a fair price. “She’ll get tired easily,” he warns. “She won’t go very far without needing a break.”

“That’s fine,” Rey assures him, feeling the angle he’s working for. He wants more money, trying to goad her into getting a better horse. She doesn’t know horses very well, but she doesn’t need a warrior. She needs transport, at best. And it's really only to save her the blisters and sore calves. The creature beneath her hands is sweet, snorting and nosing at her hand when Rey puts it close. She smiles as she strokes the horse’s neck. “How much did you say she was again?”

The merchant huffs, before muttering, “40.”

That’ll take up most of her funds, leaving her with 20 to get supplies. But she’s asked almost every other seller in the market, even a few outside of the city limits, and 40’s the best she can get without getting a mostly-dead horse in return, or a foal who can barely handle its own weight let alone hers. She pulls her hand away from the mare’s nose for a moment to pull her coinpurse out, and she counts 40, putting the coins in the man’s hands. “There. 40. Do you have a bridle?”

“That’ll be an extra ten," he tells her, beady eyes already focusing on the gold rather than her.

A rope will have to do. She shakes her head. “Thanks anyway,” she says, taking the rope around the horse’s neck and leading the mare through the market. She’s not used to having something this large with her, and she’s not used moving slowly through the crowd, so it’s a bit unnerving. There's more attention on her than she's had since that fight last month. But the mare is sweet and obedient and follows Rey’s movements, even as glacial as the horse is. With her remaining coins, Rey buys a very used saddle (she doesn't care if the leather is worn and soft, or the buckle rusted - it just needs to hold her), a straw bedroll, a water skin, and food to last her a few days. It’s no gourmet selection like the wealthy travel with, but the few stale rolls and bits of cheese will last her the trip to the castle and back if she times it correctly. And doesn’t die.

She pushes that thought far into the back of her mind as she walks through the market, a thefted apple in her hand. She takes a large bite, relishing in the sticky juice dripping down her skin and the loud ‘crunch’ that results from her teeth sinking into the fruit. Fresh fruit’s easy to steal, always in piles on carts and on tables. One apple gone isn't too much of a loss. 

She leads the mare through the marketplace and towards the city walls, only just making it past the gates when she hears her name being called.

“Rey!”

She turns, Falcon snorting in protest as she tugs the rope a bit too hard. Rey quietly apologizes to the horse, turning towards the voice. She sees white and resists the urge to turn back around to avoid her friend. No doubt Poe's going to try to talk her out of it, even when she’d already gotten her things and bought a horse for the journey. It was too late to turn back now. 

“What is it?” she asks tiredly as the guard approaches. He’s in his uniform, and she can see the chainmail underneath the white tunic. He has much of the rest of his armor on as well, metal covering his legs and arms. He doesn’t usually wear armor for a simple marketplace guard round. She frowns, opening her mouth to ask when she sees the small leather pack at his side, the kind she'd seen the guards wear sometimes for overnight patrols. “Poe-?”

“Here,” he says, pushing the strap of the bag into her hands. She almost falls forward at the weight of it. “Just … a few things, you know? Supplies given to the guards who are sent off,” he explains. She can see the slight tinge of red in his cheeks, all typical charm lost. He’s usually so careful to sneak things into her hands as to not look suspicious, but he’d just thrust it into her grasp this time.

She lifts her leg slightly, propping the bag on her bent knee and rummaging through it. Blankets, two of them. Thick, good ones that aren’t threadbare or patched like the one she has in her bag. Two water skins and a small bottle of ale, each full. She can see a loaf of fresh bread and a few apples in the bag as well, and a pair of leather boots. She pulls out one of the boots, staring at them.

“They were too small for one of the maids,” he explains. “I offered to take them - they looked like they'd be your size, maybe."

“How much did they cost you?” she asks breathlessly, running her fingers along the leather. They might be a bit too big, but that would be remedied by some fabric tucked around her feet. She looks back up at her friend in awe. He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, avoiding her eyes.

“Poe,” she says firmly, her stomach sinking as she wonders just how much he'd given for her. “How much did they-“

He reaches out to her. His hands grip her shoulders, pulling her closer to him. Her breath catches at how near they are, their faces barely inches apart. His eyes are wild, and she resists the urge to pull away from him. “It doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “Just come back alive? Please?”

“You know I will,” she assures him, giving him the biggest smile she can muster. Her free hand finds his own shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly as best as she can with the chainmail beneath his tunic. 

“No, I don’t. Not with what others are saying. I asked around to see if any of the other guards knew about it. What they told me wasn’t exactly assuring. The north’s dangerous, Rey. There’s are reasons aside from that castle why people don’t go there,” he warns. “Be careful, all right?"

She blinks at how soft his voice has become. She feels his hand come up and cup her face, his rough thumb brushing against her cheekbone. The callouses catch on her skin, and she can smell the metal and leather from his handling a sword most of the day. He's close, too close, and she tries to pull back only to have his hand slip around to the back of her head. She's pulled forward, and she stares up at him, eyes wide.

"And come back to me." He sounds like he's begging. 

He bends, and suddenly he’s kissing her. Her eyes widen in surprise and she clutches at the metal covering his upper arms, leaning into him as he pulls her close. His lips are chapped, but warm, and the kiss is soft and pleasant and safe. She’s kissed a few men in her time, their breath foul and lips rough against hers, but Poe is so different from them. She finds herself enjoying it, the hand that had gripped his shoulder moving up to cup the back of his neck. The curly hair at the base of his scalp is damp with sweat, and she realizes suddenly that he must’ve run out of training to catch her before she left. He ran through the marketplace in full gear with the bag in his arms. The thought of it makes her smile against his lips.

Rey's the one who pulls back first, but she remains in his space with her fingers moving through his hair. “I’ll try my best,” she mutters, looking up at him. He's stroking the soft skin at the nape of her neck reverently, and she smiles at how good it feels. “If I don’t come back, tell Finn that he’s going to be one of the best guards the kingdom has ever seen, all right? I know he doubts himself, especially after you beat him. Or when you let him win. You don't think he knows, but he knows.”

He barks a laugh, sharp and unamused. “I will. I promise.” The next kiss is pressed to her forehead, and she accepts it gladly. Affection is a strange and rare thing for a 'beggar rat' like her, and so she'll soak up all she can. 

Poe's reluctant to let her go, and it takes some prying and pulling on her end before she’s out of his arms. He helps her fit the saddle on Falcon, giving her instructions as he goes so she'll know what to do in the future. She watches with a sense of awe, wishing not for the first time that she could've joined the guard and learned this with him. He takes the bags from her and secures them to the saddle, putting one on each side to distribute the weight. They aren't saddle bags, not really, but he manages to secure them well enough with a few straps. She steps up once he's finished, and he gives her a leg up onto the horse. Falcon snorts in protest as Rey finds her balance, holding onto the mane of the animal as she looks down at Poe, giving him the best smile she can manage. 

“I’ll be back in a fortnight, with luck,” she tells him, legs squeezing the horse’s sides to keep herself on the animal.

“Then I wish you all the luck in the world.” He reaches up to pat her knee. Her heart clenches painfully at the realization that this could be the last time she sees his face, and she bites her lip to avoid the onslaught of tears that come on as quickly as a summer rainstorm. She smiles at him, nodding before she takes off. She doesn't look back to see if he's watching her, eyes focused on the wide expanse of land in front of her. Falcon's hooves clammer over the bridge into the city walls, and then they're free.

The merchant lied, it seems. Rey laughs loudly as Falcon tears across the dirt road, hoofs beating at the dirt and kicking up dust. Whatever the merchant had been doing to test the mare’s speed hadn’t been right, not at all, Rey thinks. Falcon feels plenty fast to her, perhaps overly so as she bumps along with the horse. She guesses the animal hasn't been let out or allowed to run this far in a long time. Come to think of it, she hasn't exactly been allowed to run like this, either. 

She grins into the wind as she passes barns she’d broken into and slept in, farms she’d occasionally steal a cabbage or a few potatoes from to make it through the night. It’s strange to see them fly by her, the world she knows gone in seemingly in an instant.

Before this, she hadn’t gone farther than the sign declaring the city limits. But the sign approaches and disappears just as quickly as the farms. The nervous lump in her throat feels a thousand times bigger as she casts a quick glance over her shoulder, the sign getting smaller and smaller behind her until it disappears seemingly in a blink. She whips her head back forward and slows the horse down to a canter to get her barings, the land before her unfamiliar and unfriendly. The trees near the castle more often than not bore fruit for harvesting, but these trees are wild and dark.

She knows how to look for the north, and so she heads forward.

Rey can count on one hand the amount of times she’s truly been afraid. One when she tripped and toppled into the water at the port at seven years of age. Another when she felt a man try to grab her for the first time at age eleven, his hand large and rough and unforgiving on her waist. The third when she’d been caught by guards who weren’t Poe and Finn, heart pounding as she wondered if that would be the end of her freedom. She's not entirely sure if she can count this as another time, but regardless Rey bites her lip, heart pounding and head dizzy as she leads the horse along the thin northern road.

-

He can feel Hux’s presence before the man even speaks. The knight waits, turning a page in his book as the other man gathers his thoughts.

The library is one of the few warm rooms in the castle, the fire always roaring thanks to the dedication of a certain red-haired second hand. The knight’s grateful for it, grateful for a room where he doesn’t have to wear his full regalia. His armor’s mostly gone, everything from his shoulders down covered in thick black pants and a black tunic. He keeps his pauldrons secured on his shoulders, his cloak curled around him like a blanket. Even as warm as the fire is beside him, the occasional chill still seeps through the thick material of his clothes. His helmet is abandoned beside him, on the floor. He loathes when he’ll have to put it on again, knowing from experience the metal will be ice cold from resting on the stone.

When the other man doesn’t speak, the knight looks up, irritated at being so rudely interrupted. “… yes?”

Hux coughs slightly. “There are reports, sir. Of your father leaving for distant lands.”

The knight blinks at his second hand. “… and I should care because…?”

“Because those reports have also said that he is planning on sailing north.” It's not true. Hux knows very well that the king is heading west, that the wise old man will never head north unless on the queen's orders, but he wants to know what his master's reaction will be. If anything it'll be humorous, at least. And he might have to clean this room afterwards, but he's curious all the same.

The knight curses, running a pale hand through his dark hair before looking up at the other man. “Near here?” he demands, voice low and harsh.

“It’s assumed, sir.” 

The book is promptly thrown to the floor in a flurry of pages. It’s better than the last literature casualty - Hux was shoveling the remains of five novels out of the fireplace for an hour. "Alert the guards."

“Already done, sir.”

“Good.” The knight can sense the hesitation of his second hand, and guesses what Hux is going to say before the red-headed man even moves his lips. 

“… and if he does approach, sir? Your father? Personally?"

“… attack.”

Hux stares. “You’re giving your permission to attack your own father.” His voice is flat, and very close to mocking. 

“Yes.”

“You are telling me to tell the soldiers to attack the king.”

“Yes!” The word comes out as an exasperated growl, the knight turning to glare at Hux. “What is so difficult about the order?!”

“Nothing, sir. I just thought you had a bit more sense in you,” Hux sniffs. “But no, I’ll go alert the soldiers that the madman has told us to attack the king.”

“I don’t need your jests right now, Hux,” the knight snarls, picking the book up from the floor and walking to the shelf it belongs to. He reaches, slipping the tome back into place. He turns and glares when he sees that Hux hasn’t left, hasn’t even moved an inch.

“Sir. I think you should reconsider the order.” The man’s voice is level, but the knight can tell that he’s resisting the urge to say something considerably ruder.

“And why would I do that, Hux?” He lets the name fall from his lips as harshly as he can, the name sounding more like a curse.

“Because, Kylo.” The knight glares when his name is used, but the redheaded man doesn't back down. He hasn't before, not in all his three years of serving the man. "To attack the king is to bring an army to us. And not just the guard, no. The armies of allies as well. We would be destroyed in an instant."

The knight hesitates, before glaring at Hux. “The order remains,” he insists. “You’re dismissed.”

Hux continues to stare at him before turning promptly on his heel, leaving the room and muttering something about a child, insanity and insolence under his breath.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I enjoyed writing Han and Leia, don't expect to see them too often. I'd rather not throw too many points of view at you, so I'm going to try to keep it limited to Rey and Kylo. It was fun for a paragraph, but I don't think they'll appear by themselves very often.  
> I might've added the bit at the end simply because I adore writing bitchy!Hux. My friend described him as a bitchy nanny. I think that's the most accurate description.  
> With some luck and a bit of hope, they'll meet in the next chapter. If you don't mind an extremely long chapter, that is.


	4. the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took a lot longer to update than I'd thought. I don't blame lack of inspiration; rather, I had a bit too much inspiration - mainly for other things.  
> Here's to hoping that I can get this up and running again. I have some ideas, but we'll just see how it goes, shall we?  
> Thank you for the kind comments that urged me to update again! They truly mean a lot to me.

Sometimes, if she focuses her mind as it teeters on the edge of sleep, she can recall a winter. A harsh one, back when she was about six years of age, give or take a year or so. The coldest winter in recent kingdom memory, more harsh and unforgiving ice than soft snow. 

She remembers it in snippets, small fragments of a bigger memory long pushed aside for more recent, more important things. She can remember the straw in a barn she’d broken into, the scratches she received from sleeping on it. She remembers that her fingers had been seemingly permanently pink from the cold, and she can recall how she’d often tucked them under her arms to keep the heat in. 

If she tries hard enough, she can remember, vaguely, standing in a line. She can recall feeling the snow beneath her boots, her tiny feet stamping it down as a form of entertainment as she waited her turn. There were a few other children around, and the balls of snow they threw were less snow and more ice this year, leading to blood and broken bones more often than not. She can remember feeling the cold through her boots, through the thick woolen shawl she’d draped over her shoulders to shield herself from the cold. Bits of her shins were peeking out from the boots, stockings and dress now too short for her taller frame. She remembers that sliver of skin being numb after. 

The line had been for food and supplies, the provisions handed out by the leaders of the kingdom in an attempt to curb the appetite and anger of the people. The harvest had been sparse due to heavy rains, and even though she was learning to scavenge what she could, it seemed so had everyone else. She was still better, but she was also still young and inexperienced. Fluttering eyelashes and big eyes got her more than clumsy fingers did, at this age. 

Her first glimpse of Queen Leia was a flash of green, blue and brown, moving towards the supplies to bring more to the front. Her first glimpse of King Han was kind eyes and dark hair and a smile that belonged more to a crook than a king. 

The bread, cheese and jam came wrapped in a thick blanket, tied tightly at its corners. It was handed to her by a boy of maybe 15 years of age, his hands covered in fur-lined gloves. 

“Are your fingers normally this purple?” he had asked as he handed her the blanket, frown deep. She’d been unnerved by the way the expression looked on his face, like it belonged there permanently. He should smile, she remembers thinking. She had nodded mutely, watching in awe and embarrassment as he tugged the gloves off of his own hands. “Here.” 

He’d taken food from her, balancing it on his slender hip as he slid the too-big gloves onto her hands. Immediately her hands were near hot, a combination of his own heat and the warm fur. She’d stared at the gloves in awe, eyes darting immediately to the crest branded into the leather. 

“I can’t-“ 

“Well, I’m not letting you leave here with purple fingers,” he insisted, handing her the food back. “Go on. There are others waiting.” He turned on his heel and retreated back to where the crates of food were. His pale fingers turned pink in the cold just as quickly as hers did, she realized after a few moments of watching him. But he never came back for his gloves, and he never looked at her again.

The gloves lasted her five winters, until her hands became too large to slip into them anymore. She tore the fur out carefully the fifth winter, gaining a bit more room in the rich leather, enough for another three winters. 

When she first met Poe, she’d been assaulted with memories of dark hair and dark eyes and warm kindness.

But no. Poe’s features weren’t as stark, his hair not as dark nor as sleek. And his ears weren’t nearly as big. 

-

She wishes she had those gloves now, or that she’d had the money to buy new ones. The North is teeth-clatteringly cold, especially at night. She’s grateful for the thick blanket Poe gave her, the fabric draped across her shoulders. Falcon seems perfectly content to be tied to a nearby tree, sated with some of Rey’s provisions. 

The fire isn’t exactly roaring, but it isn’t dying either. She feeds it dried leaves from the forest floor, the air bitterly cold and very dry. It serves her well in tending the fire. 

She huddles with her knees to her chest, arms wrapped around said knees. She can’t ever remember sitting in silence. Her nights were spent in streets and in stables. There was always life around her, a sense of vitality. Here, there is none. 

Falcon snorts, and she turns to see the horse dozing. She knows she should get some sleep as well, but is unsure of the forest. They’re on the edge of it, still in moonlight’s reach. But the sounds that come from it - or rather, the lack thereof - unnerve her. 

Eventually she gives into exhaustion, settling beside the fire and curling around her pack to protect it. 

Her sleep is dreamless. 

-

He watches the ship go. It doesn’t once turn towards the cliffs, never once heads towards the rocky beaches beneath the shadow of the castle. It heads on into the morning sun, sails full of wind. 

He feels something deep in his chest, back behind his heart and his lungs in some little dark corner he can’t quite name. It’s a sick feeling, heavy and sad as he watches his father’s ship head off for what seems like the hundredth time since his birth. 

He turns once the ship is silhouetted against the sun, and walks back into the castle, his cloak whipping around his ankles with the sea breeze. 

-

Morning comes too soon, in her opinion. An early riser she is not, much to Poe and Finn’s amusement. Yes, time when the sun is up is time to steal and scavenge, but that doesn’t mean she has to be happy about it. She shuffles for much of the early morning, the grass around her coated in dew that isn’t as frozen as she thought it would be. She packs up the blanket and the provisions, stomps out the fire and tosses the rocks that had made up the pit against trees for target practice. Falcon doesn’t like the noise of stone hitting bark, so she stops after the fifth and just moves them to erase any evidence of their campsite. 

She walks for a bit, Falcon beside her. It’s a blessing to stretch her legs. Long, leisurely strolls are possible in the countryside, but not so much in the city. The city has too many people, too many bumps and holes. She takes advantage of the time she has, letting her boots sink into the dark grass. When her feet tire, she swings herself up onto Falcon’s back and starts forward again. 

She only has the sun to guide her North. She goes barreling towards nowhere, unsure of what she’ll find. 

-

Their pace towards the end of the day is slow, almost leisurely. She follows the stars as best as she can as they appear in the sky, eyes focused on the brightest one and heading towards it. 

The stars are vivid and the sky clear when she sees a light that is certainly not the cool-toned light of the moon. It’s the warm, orange glow of a fire. She stops Falcon with a low “Ho”, sitting down deep in the seat. 

The light is just inside of the forest they’ve been riding alongside, much like her own camp had been. She frowns as she leans forward, trying to get a better look. Falcon takes this as a goad to move forward, and Rey finds herself almost tumbling off as the horse starts walking towards the fire.

She can hear voices as the they approach, deep and masculine. She has the instinctual feeling of perhaps they shouldn’t be there when an arrow whizzes past them. 

The man had shit aim, or was drunk, as it hits the ground with the tip buried deep in the dirt, a good foot from her and the horse. She startles all the same, eyes wide on the arrow. 

“Ya just wasted a good arrow!” 

Falcon, spooked, rears up. It’s by sheer dumb luck that she doesn’t break anything as she goes tumbling to the ground. “Whoa!” she exclaims, trying to calm the scared animal as best as she could while on the ground. She stands quickly, out of the way of Falcon’s hooves, before reaching towards the horse. “Steady, easy, easy!” 

It’s easier said than done when she feels the prick of a knife at the small of her back. 

“State your business, girl.” 

“None related to yours,” she says quickly as she tries to calm her horse. Falcon snorts, uneasy, but calms slightly below her small hands. “I have no intentions related to you.” 

The knife doesn’t move away. “Then what are your intentions?” 

The voice comes from the other side of the fire, and she looks towards the figure. His face is cast in sharp, contrasting shadows from the fire, but he doesn’t look entirely unfriendly towards her. 

“I’ve come to go to the castle,” she explains. 

The knife’s pulled back from her skin as the entire company roars into laughter. She can count five laughs, all male. While she can’t see the rest of them clearly, she can see shadows of figures in the trees. 

The one who’d had the weapon to her back steps around to face her. “The castle, eh?” He snorts. “Little thin’ like yeh? Yeh won’t survive.” 

She lifts her chin. “I like to think that I will.” 

“You won’t,” the man sitting beside the fire says. He holds up a clay tankard, raising one dark eyebrow at her. “It’s not exactly good, but it isn’t bad. Care to join us before you go marching towards your death?” 

The idea of a fire in this cold is admittedly inviting, and as is the idea of something stronger than water to drink. She looks towards Falcon hesitantly, before looking back towards the men. “… who are you?” 

“Some call us thieves,” one man pipes up. 

“All call us thieves, Alex,” another retorts from across the fire. 

The man who’d offered her the drink shrugs. “We were looking for the same as you,” he explains, jerking his head towards the ground next to him. She looks towards the man who’d threatened her. He nods and takes Falcon’s rope from her, tying the horse securely to one of the nearby trees. Rey grabs her bags from Falcon’s back, draping a blanket across the horse’s form before walking over to join the men by the fire.

She can see them a bit more clearly from where she settles down. The man next to her doesn’t reek as much of alcohol as she had expected, admittedly, and he’s no doubt the leader of the group. There are four others. The one who’d threatened her is a large man, over a head taller than her, and two of her broad. He settles on a fallen tree across from the fire, bracing his elbows on his knees. There’s a long, skinny stick of a man leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his chest and hair the color of straw - and sticking out just as much. The rest she can’t see entirely clearly, the lack of light making it hard to see the others. 

“It’s a legend, you know that, right?” the man beside her asks, and she turns to look at him. 

“I’ve been told,” she says. 

“And you’ve also been told that you’re walking right to Death’s door?” 

“Yes.”

“And you’re willing to try anyway.”

“Yes.” 

His smile isn’t entirely kind. “Then you’re a beautiful little fool.” 

“And yet you told me that you went looking for it as well,” she demands, narrowing her eyes as the wind changes and smoke starts to head her way. 

“We had eight when we left Bespin,” the man explains. “And you can see how many there are of us now. There is one you.” 

“I don’t make as much noise as eight men,” she replies, and the man snorts before shrugging in agreement. 

“True, you do not. Though sneakiness alone won’t save you,” he tells her. 

“And you know what will?” 

He narrows his eyes at her. “Do you think we would be down three men and without one of those roses if I knew?” he questions, raising a dark brow.  
A man throws another piece of wood onto the fire, and she watches as the flames grow higher, hungrily licking at the new fuel. She can see a bit more clearly as the fire brightens. The man next to her can’t be more than forty years of age, with smile lines and several days stubble. She tilts her head slightly at him. “What do you suggest I do, then?” 

“Start thinking clearly,” he says before taking a swig of the ale. She waits until he’s finished drinking, sensing that he isn’t quite finished. “You’re chasing after a fairytale, you know that, right?” 

“I have nothing to lose.” 

“Your life?” 

She shrugs. “Is not valuable enough to be considered a loss.” 

He raises an eyebrow at her. “… you are mad,” he says before passing her the tankard. “Drink up, fool. You’ll need your courage, whether you’re leaving tonight or in the morn. The castle’s a short ride north. If it weren’t so dark, you’d probably be able to see it on the horizon.” 

She takes the tankard gratefully, and drinks. It’s incredibly sour, and she sputters softly after swallowing. The man just snorts and shakes his head, taking the tankard back from her. “Homebrewed. The good stuff.” 

“I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to disagree,” Rey tells him, eyes watering as she gladly lets him take it from her. She reaches for her water instead, and an apple. Using her knife, she splits the fruit in half before handing it to him. “Care to impart any wisdom on the castle?” 

“If you think any of us are wise, then you’re dead wrong, sweetheart,” one of the men from across the fire says, voice gruff. She looks towards him to see a broad man, head bald and legs uneven. He settles down near the fire, having come from the trees. “There are soldiers. In white armor.”

“Thought they were spirits, at first,” the accented man tells her. 

“If they were undead spirits, they wouldn’t have been able to kill Elon,” the skinny man retorts, voice high-pitched and reedy like his limbs. Rey watches between the three of them. 

“And if ya’d swung left like ah told ya, then he wouldn’t have been hit!” the accented man insists. 

“Kan,” the leader says warningly, and the men deflate seemingly immediately. He looks towards her. “There are soldiers, yes. Men in white armor who know how to fight, and well. They look like spirits, empty suits of armor, but don't be fooled."

“So I sneak around them,” she insists. 

“Easier said than done. They guard a bridge to the castle, and then you’ll have to scale the wall surrounding it,” he explains. 

“I can climb,” she insists. 

“Your arms will tear and your fingers will bleed by the time you scale that wall,” he tells her, taking a sip of whatever was in his tankard. She watches, slightly envious as he drinks it without difficulty. “It’s at least ten horses high.” 

“I can do it,” she insists again. 

He stares at her, tankard still to his lips. She watches as he pulls it away and puts her fruit to his mouth instead, teeth crunching into the meat of it. Juice dribbles down his chin into his dark stubble, and she loathes to admit it, but he’s not unattractive. He’s no Poe, nor is he Finn. There’s no easy kindness about him, no easy smile or innocent charm. But he’s not bad to look at, and as she watches him eat, his teeth don’t look to be entirely rotted. 

“We didn’t get past the ones guarding the bridge,” he tells her, once he swallows. She watches as he licks his lips, nodding towards the other men. “There were two there, but they overpowered us easily. They’re trained well, whoever they were trained by.” 

“Swords? Arrows? Fists?” she demands. 

“All,” he replies. “Do you fight?” 

“With fists,” she replies. “And sometimes a blade. Arrows, no.” 

“Then I wish you the best of luck in sneaking by them,” he tells her. “You’ll need it.” 

“Where are you headed?” she questions. 

“Back towards Bespin. Two out of the three lost were husbands. One a father,” he explains, and it makes her heart hurt as she thinks, again, of how there’s a good possibility that she’ll never see Poe or Finn again. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, because it’s the only thing she can think to say as she moves closer to the fire, the northern chill biting at her bones. 

“So are we,” he mumbles before glancing at the moon. “… we don’t have a bedroll, but we have a fire, if you’d like to camp with us.” 

“How do I know you won’t take my supplies and leave with my horse?” she demands, because as attractive as he is, she learned long ago not to trust men with pretty faces. 

The rule, apparently, is exclusive to boys with fur-and-leather gloves, but that’s beside the point. 

“You don’t,” he replies, matter-of-factly, and that secures her decision. She stands, expecting them to protest, and shakes her head. 

“Thank you for the offer, but I’d rather continue,” she explains. “Work under darkness.” 

“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said,” the leader tells her.

She smiles wryly as she gathers her bag and starts towards Falcon, securing the supplies back onto the horse. “North, you said?” 

“A short ride,” the leader replies. “We had injured with us. We didn’t get far.” 

“Thank you for the assistance,” she replies as she unties Falcon. The horse snorts as she mounts the mare, and she reaches into her bag to pull out another apple. She tosses it to the leader, half of a loaf of her bread falling into the man’s hands shortly after. “I’m afraid I can’t offer much else in terms of repayment,” she tells him. 

It seems to be enough, though, as the men perk up immediately at the idea of having just a bit more food. The leader holds the bread up to her. “Good luck on your suicide.” 

She just smiles at him, shaking her head as she tugs on the mare’s mane. “May you return to Bespin with four men at your side, and no less,” she tells him as she turns and starts to ride. 

He was right, she realizes as she starts north again, at a canter. What originally had looked like a cluster of tall trees in the distance was actually very much not. It’s too regular, to smooth, to level to be trees. It’s the castle, dark and looming and completely and utterly terrifying. 

She steels herself and sends Falcon forward, eyes on the challenge ahead.

-

Two guards. That’s really all there are. Two guards, in not entirely heavy armor. She’s seen Finn and Poe train in better armor than whatever these men are wearing. One has a crossbow, and the other a sword at his hip. She watches as the crossbow-ed man turns, and notes that, though he has a blade at his other hip, it’s not large enough to be called a sword. 

Poorly armed, it seems. How could they not have been overtaken by the eight men she’d encountered? She frowns, crouching low. She’d left Falcon at the edge of the path, far from the men in case of discovery. The knot she’d tied around the tree was lose; if Rey never returned, the horse could escape easily and live the rest of her life, however long that may be. The thief knew that her death was a definite possibility, though she still hoped the chances of it were low. 

She crouches in the dark shadows of the trees and feels along the dry dirt for a rock of some sort. She finds one the size of her palm or so, jagged but hefty. Years of target practice with the boys has her standing up slightly, just enough to hit a tree a few yards away smack in the middle of the trunk. Her throw was hard enough to disturb some of the dry bark. 

She startles as, not two heartbeats after, there’s an arrow directly where the rock had been. 

That explains why they lost three men, then, she admits, looking towards the guards. Though poorly armed, their skill apparently was enough. She’d have to find another way around. 

Her opportunity comes when the crossbow-armed man steps away, presumably to investigate the noise she’d caused. She adjusts the small pack on her back and darts forward towards the bridge. Her steps are light enough that they don’t hear her, and she thanks the Maker for her small size and quick feet. Perhaps she could do this. She’s no lumbering, stumbling man. Sneaking is her occupation, really. 

The bridge isn’t long, maybe forty steps. She makes it across easily enough, glancing back occasionally to the guards who are still at the start of it. If they suspect anything, they don’t show it. 

There’s a large gate, barred and made out of sturdy wood, but she forgoes it entirely and moves around the side of the castle where the trees come up. Their limbs are too thin to climb, but they could provide a decent cover for her as she ascends. 

She tests the stones of the wall, digging her fingers in to see if they’d catch. It’s an old structure, worn and weathered, and the stone’s rough against her fingers. Good. She’ll be able to climb it easily, she thinks. She’s climbed walls before; the garden walls and the training wall that the soldiers use to see if she could beat Poe and Finn’s times. This shouldn’t be too much harder, despite its height. 

She looks up and thanks the Maker, again, that she can see the top of it. It’s not so high, she thinks as she digs her fingers into the cracks between the stones. She can do this. She can definitely do this. 

Rey pulls herself up, finding footholds in the cracks between the stones. She’s about a third of the way up by the time her arms start to ache, and her feet start to scramble. In her blind panic towards finding another foothold, she finds a loose stone instead and send it tumbling to the ground. 

She freezes, eyes going wide as she presses herself against the wall and scrunches her eyes shut. The rock hits the wall on the way down, cracking against it before hitting the bridge with another deafening crack. She squeezes herself against the stones, making herself as still as possible and hoping to hell and back that the darkness of night and the branches of the trees keep her from being discovered.

She waits with bated breath for something, anything. The sound of an arrow whizzing by her ear, the sound of a guard shouting to shoot her. But instead she gets nothing. 

There’s complete and utter silence. She can vaguely hear the wind, and the sound of the sea crashing against the rocks. But as far as the guards go, there’s nothing. 

She chances opening her eyes and glances down towards the bridge. The guards are still at the start of it, facing straight ahead towards the path leading towards the castle. She watches and waits for a few more moments before lifting her right leg and bracing it against the stone. She hoists herself up another foot or so, glancing down again once she’s settled to check on the guards again. They’re still oblivious, still facing the other way. 

Satisfied that she wasn’t discovered, she continues up. 

She’s entirely sure her fingers are bleeding by the time she can clearly see the top, and gauge how long she still has. She’s grateful for the slim toes of the boots that Poe had given her; they help her grip the stone a bit easier as she ascends the wall. She hoists herself the little bit that she has to go, and sighs in relief as she straddles the top of the wall. She leans forward, pressing her cheek to the top of the cool stone and just sits there for a few heartbeats. 

She swings her leg slightly, stretching it, and startles when she feels the gentle, tickling sensation of leaves against her leg through her leggings. She looks down, eyes wide, to see the dark shape of a tree near her. With luck, she can find a sturdy branch near her and use that to make her way down. While she was skilled enough with walls, trees are her specialty with the amount of times she’s stolen apples from orchards. She almost laughs in relief, but doesn’t dare in fear of alerting someone of her presence. 

She crawls along the top of the wall at a snail’s pace, one leg on either side as she tries to find a branch to cling to. She eventually finds one sturdy enough for her weight, and braces herself against it. The bark’s hell on her hands after what she’d put them through with the wall, but she thinks of the roses that are most likely down below and breathes through the pain as she moves from straddling the wall to straddling the branch. From there, she swings down to the next branch. 

It’s a surprisingly easy process. The tree’s one of the kinds that grow sturdy, step-like branches, and she’s grateful for it as she moves down it. She takes care to be as quiet as possible, and she scans the gardens once her feet find the crisp grass below. 

In the chill, her footsteps crack slightly against the frost on the grass. She winces at every step she takes before she finds a stone path and walks along that instead. The bright light of the moon illuminates her way, but in truth that would only really help her if she knew where she was going. 

Rey looks around at the shrubs and hedges around the garden. Most of the flowers are dead, branches bare and leaves wilted. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps it was a legend; no flowers would survive here, or at least not for long. 

She bites her lip, skimming the bushes for anything that could possibly look like a rose. She’d seen them along the fences of some of the houses, knows what they look like. She runs her hand carefully along some of the tops of the bushes, feeling for thorns that would prick her skin. She just feels smooth, dry branches. 

“Hell,” she curses softly, looking around the garden for any sort of hint or clue. She receives none. She starts looking between the branches for dark shapes, dark petals, anything. 

It’s not until she tries to walk around the fountain that she accidentally kicks something. It scatters across the walk and she freezes, eyes going wide as she stares at the piece of stone that had broken from the statue in the middle of the dead and dirty structure. She glances around quickly, waiting to see if anything would happen. Nothing does. 

She scurries to the piece of stone and picks it up, feeling the shape with her fingers. It’s a hand, small and smooth. She glances towards the fountain, trying to make out the shapes in the darkness. There are cherubs, she can see, and she guesses that it broke off from one of those. She carefully sets the broken hand on the ledge of the fountain, stepping back slowly before continuing her search. 

She walks around the left side, the opposite of where she’d dropped in, and runs her hand along one of the bushes. This time something catches on her hand and she stops, cursing softly at the sharp pain that shoots up her finger. Her hand immediately goes to her mouth, tasting of salt and stone and sweat and blood as she stares down at the bush. 

Her eyes go wide almost immediately. 

So it’s not a legend. 

Like they’d said, there are black roses. Full and soft, perhaps the only living thing in this entire garden aside from the tree she’d come down on. She reaches down to stroke the petals, and her breath catches as she feels the smoothness of them. They’re smoother than any silk she’d stolen, any marble she’d snitched. She allows herself another feel, plucking a petal from one of the flowers and feeling it between her fingers. 

“So it is true,” she breathes softly, staring at the petal between her forefinger and thumb. She looks towards the bush and quickly counts the amount of roses on it. One, two, three … seven. There are seven roses. And at five hundred gold each… 

She laughs, breathlessly, not believing her luck before she stops suddenly. Her laughter echoes along the stone wall, and her eyes widen in horror at the loudness of it. 

_Hell._

She reaches into the bush, not even bothering to avoid the thorns as she plucks as many of the roses as she possibly can from it. Her hands are scratched and stinging, but at least she has two before she hears the creaking of some hinges somewhere. 

She freezes, eyes scanning the garden for any sign of life. She sees none, but that doesn’t soothe her fears as she looks down at the two roses she’d managed to get in her hands. Rey looks up towards the direction of the creak before taking off in the other, trying to keep her footsteps light. 

Though light they are, they’re not exactly the most graceful, and in her haste she ends up nearly tripping over a loose stone in the path. One of the roses tumbles from her grip, but she doesn’t have time to search for it in the darkness. One will have to do, she decides. She doesn’t have time to sprint across the garden to the tree; she’ll have to scale the wall again. 

She finds a bare spot that isn’t covered in trellises or vines, and slips the rose stem into her mouth as she braces herself against it and tries to climb frantically. The thorns prick at her tongue and lips, but she can’t bring herself to care as she tries to hoist herself up. 

“You are aware that doesn’t belong to you, are you not?”

The sudden voice, deep and almost hollow, startles her from the wall. Her breath’s caught in her throat, heart seemingly along with it, so she can’t even shriek as she tumbles the good ten feet she’d managed to climb. The rose falls from her lips, and she mourns its loss for a mere moment before realizing that she probably won’t make the fall herself. She braces for impact, hoping for something – death, maybe – at the end of it. 

She doesn’t hit stone, or bramble, or bush. To her surprise, she falls into a pair of strong arms. She can feel the hard press of a chest plate against her shoulder, and finds herself looking up into a dark helmet, the eyes of the dark knight hidden behind the visor. Rey stares for half a moment more before she feels something heavy, like a weight just behind the hollow of her skull, where her neck begins. It’s impossible to resist, and though she tries, eventually it yanks her back into darkness as her head lolls back.


	5. the dungeon.

A girl. 

The intruder had been a girl. No more than 20 winters old, perhaps a bit less. 

He snorts in mirth, the sound hollow beneath his helmet as he walks to the dungeons, the girl in his arms. Leave it to a woman to almost succeed in a task hundreds of men had failed several times before her. Only one man before had managed to make it past the guards at the bridge, and he’d been dealt with swiftly with arrows and blades.

But the girl? The girl had made it inside. The girl had found his roses. The girl had very nearly escaped with one between her lips. If he hadn’t spoken, and instead let her be, he would have no doubt that she would’ve run away just fine. She would’ve run away and sold the rose to the highest bidder for a pretty penny, and lived out the rest of her days in comfort. Comfort she certainly isn’t living in now, if the clothes covering her are any indication. Rags, at best, a tunic too small and leggings too large, stretched out from too many wears and not enough time drying beneath the sun after a wash. Her face is streaked in dirt – no doubt from her time spent sleeping on the forest floor, or else crawling about his gardens. He shakes his head as he steps through the garden doors into the warmth of the castle, shifting her slightly as he walks inside, humming softly as the cold seeps from his bones and is replaced with the heat of the surrounding fires. 

“Prepare a cell,” he tells Hux, shifting the girl in his arms. “We have a guest.”

-

She wakes to cold. Not the cold wind of the North, relentless in its wind and ever changing in its relief from the gusts. No, this is bone-numbing cold that settles in and won’t be shaken so easily with a few shivers and hand rubs. She shudders and moves to sit up, frowning as her hands press to stone instead of soil. 

Realization hits her, and she pushes herself into a sitting position so quickly her head spins painfully. Fighting a wince, she’s grateful of the low light as she looks around her prison, noting the bars and the small room that she’s in. There’s no bed, no bench, nothing aside from a hole in the floor for waste. Not even a window. She looks towards the bars, pulse pounding behind her temples as she sits up further. Movement catches her eye and she scrambles backwards until her back’s up against the stone wall behind her. She hisses at the chill of it, eyes going wide as her vision focuses and she sees the man – no, monster – crouched in the shadow. She can just barely see the fire reflected off of his dark armor, light hitting the smooth surface of the black helmet. She stares at him, the words of the men in the pub coming back to her in an instant. 

_It’s occupied by a black knight who grows black roses and carries a black blade._

She sees no blade now, only the black knight himself as he leans forward a bit, obviously studying her. Rey wonders how long he’s been crouched, his weight on his feet and arms braces on his bent knees. She moves slowly, shifting her weight back onto her hands as she lifts her backside and pulls back even further from him, pushing herself flush against the cold wall. “Where am I?” she demands, though she guesses it’s quite obvious. She’s in a dungeon, and most likely in the castle she’d entered. 

“You’re my guest.” 

Her blood runs cold at his words. His voice is deep, and hollow sounding against the metal of his helmet. It’s the same voice from the garden, and her breath hitches in her throat as she stares at him. He offers her no other explanation as she pushes herself to her feet, walking towards the rusted bars. He stands as well, and she stops. The man is huge, almost hulking as he stands before her. She’s not entirely sure how much is armor and how much is the man himself, but she watches as the warm firelight glints off of the metal. He’s two of her wide, she’s sure of it, and more than a head taller than her. They’re a few steps apart, and big though he may be, she refuses to back down as she tilts her head up, swallowing before trying to meet his eyes beneath his helmet. She can see nothing, only black, in the dim light of the torches around them.

“Interesting way to treat a guest,” she says, voice stronger than she’d expect with her heart hammering in her throat. 

He tilts his head ever so slightly, like the pups she saw in the market in baskets lined with soiled blankets. “Would you rather I treat you like the thief you are? Or an intruder? I can, if you’d like.” His voice is softer now, almost dulcet though it still resonates beneath the helmet. Now she does see his blade, on his hip, as he reaches for it. 

“No.” The word falls from her lips quickly, and she stares at the hilt of his sword as he drops his hand from the weapon. Her heart starts beating again; she hadn’t realized it had stopped for a beat. 

“Very well.” It’s louder than before, echoing slightly, and she winces. He takes a step forward, and she steps back quick enough to lose her balance. The fall to the floor is swift, and she lets out a soft whimper as she hits the cold, hard stone again, muscles aching from the floor and from her actions … hours ago? Days ago? She has no inkling. Her elbows knock against the floor, and she pushes herself up on them to stare at him. 

“Why did you come here?” 

He sounds more curious than angry, and she blinks as he tilts his head again. “The roses,” she replies. 

“You don’t wish to kill me?” It’s a question, and an odd one at that. She wonders just how many people came for his blood instead of his blossoms if he had to ask.

“No.” She watches as he steps closer to the bars, huge hand wrapping around one of them. It could cover her entire face, easily, and she can barely breathe as he unlocks the door and opens it. 

She learned long ago to take any opportunity given. She can see an out and she takes it, eyes on the space beneath his large arm as the door swings open. Pushing herself to her feet, she launches for it. The opening beneath his arm is on the same side as his sword, so as she passes by, she yanks the weapon from him, fingers nimble and skilled. The heat of it in her hand is shocking, and she nearly drops the burning metal as she rushes towards the staircase. 

The toe of her new boot catches on a loose stone, and before she knows it she’s pitching forward, sword still clutched in her grasp. Before she can find her footing again, and regain her balance, time seems to stand still. Her eyes widen as she realizes that she can’t move, and her gaze darts to the torches on the wall. The fire is still flickering, moving with a life of its own as she’s frozen mid-fall. No, time hasn’t stopped. She has. 

“You think me a fool.” 

His voice is right by her ear, and she closes her eyes, wincing as she feels the leather of his glove against her jaw. It’s a soft touch, almost a caress. She hates it, screwing her eyes shut as she feels the sword being wrenched from her hand. She can’t move her fingers, can’t close them into a fist to throw at him. Not that it would make a difference; he’s armored, and her fist is bare. She’d break it before hurting him. 

“I think you a monster,” she breathes, relieved that she can move her lips and tongue. 

“As do I.” 

She’s released almost as soon as she was frozen, and then his hands are on her upper arms. She kicks back, her heel connecting with his armored shin. He pays no mind, lifting her up and carrying her back to the cell. She’s thrown in bodily, her shoulder connecting with the cold floor again. A hiss escapes from between her teeth as she curls up, eyes darting to the door as it slams closed with a harsh ‘clang’. He wraps the chain around it, locking it once with one lock and then with another. She tries to see the keys he has, tries to memorize the curves and notches of them, but he pulls them away too soon and hides it in his gauntlet-covered hand. 

“Little thief,” he says, voice echoing beneath his helmet before he turns and walks off, armor clinking. She watches him go, watches as with a flick of his wrist all the lights are extinguished. She’s left in complete darkness, not even able to see the bars containing her or her feet in front of her. She waits, listening for his footsteps as they retreat up the stairwell. 

“Hell,” she hisses, once silence falls. 

-

The gardens are less beautiful in the daytime. In the dark, it’s easy to ignore the bare branches and the empty, cracked fountain. In the day, he can see the broken stone and the distinct lack of green. Leaves crunch beneath the heels of his boots, and he’s grateful that he ditched the cold metal of his armor for a thicker tunic and cloak. 

The roses are just to his left, and he can see where she’d snapped hers off. The ones she’d dropped are wilted on the ground, and he smirks a bit as he walks towards them, lifting one. The dew that had collected on its petals has frosted over, and he touches the ice with a dark leather-covered finger to see it crack. 

Black roses. Funny how something so mundane to him can be so legendary. They were here when he came to the castle, wild and unruly and taking over everything. What was once unusual had now become commonplace, though he doesn’t doubt that they can fetch a pretty coin at a market, if given to the right seller. He’d seen red roses, and white, and pink in his time in Alderaan, but never black. He wonders, not for the first time, how they came into being, but doesn’t dwell on it too much in favor of parting the petals with his fingertips, spreading the flower out as much as possible before the blossom breaks and petals fall to his feet. 

“Sir.” 

“Hux.” 

“Why is there a girl in our dungeon?”

“She is a thief.” A pretty thief. A clever thief. A capable thief, but a thief all the same. 

“Then I ask you why her blood hasn’t been spilled?” 

It’s a good question. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why he feels drawn to the small thief, liking the freckles across her cheeks and her glare towards him, the way her body had brushed against his on her way to her almost-escape. Not knowing the answer, the knight remains silent as he watches the petals fall from his fingertips. He crushes them beneath the toe of his boot, watching as they smear along the stone path. It’s not as satisfying as he would’ve liked, the plushness of them providing no satisfying crunch or even a snap. He steps back, not looking towards the other man or offering him any sort of explanation as he walks to the garden door.

-

The cold is relentless. Rey can barely feel her fingers, and she lost feeling in her toes long ago. She keeps her arms wrapped around herself, bracing her back against the wall and keeping her knees to her chest as she rests her chin on them and stares out into the black of the dungeon. Despite her efforts tugging at the locks, slipping her small hands through the bars and yanking at the mechanisms, they holds tight. The chain is tight as well, her fingers raw from her prying. She can’t see a damn thing, having found the locks and chain by touch alone. She wonders if she’s bleeding, or if the tang of metal she tastes on her fingertips is simply from touching the lock itself. She doesn’t spend too much time wondering, instead drawing into herself and curling against the wall.

She misses Poe. 

The thought is sudden and swift, and she blinks in the darkness in surprise. She misses Finn, too, of course, but Poe is the first to come to mind. It shocks her for a moment, before the reality of her situation comes crashing down on her. 

There is a very good chance that she will die here. And that would mean breaking her promise to come back to him. The brief memory of his lips, warm against hers, has her bending to press her forehead to her knees, clenching her eyes shut and biting her lip. She wants that now, wants his arms around her to warm her up and keep her close. Hell, she’d give for just a touch to her cheek now, if it were warm and soft. She reaches her hand up to cup her own jaw, thumb stroking along the skin of her cheek. A poor imitation of another’s touch, especially when her skin is as cold as it is, but it’s comforting, at least.

The sudden flicker of light has her looking towards the door. The torches all come on at once, crackling and bright. They don’t bring much warmth, but they bring a bit, and it makes her sigh as she hears the clanking of the knight’s armor. She doesn’t move from her spot, doesn’t dare lift her head as she hears the sound of metal against stone. It’s not until he leaves, footsteps echoing on the staircase, that she looks up and realizes that the lights are still on. A bit of warmth, then, and she can check to see if her toes are blue. She blinks, looking towards the door. A bowl of broth has been slipped beneath it, and she stares at it. 

On the one hand, she should eat. Her stomach aches and it might be warm. On the other hand, what does it matter? She has the distinct feeling that her promise has already been broken. She won’t leave here, not unless an opportunity comes. And she doubts it will, for a long time. 

She leaves the bowl where it is, tucking her chin into her knees.

There is no way to tell time here. There are no windows, no sense of light aside from the torches. She can’t fathom how long she’s been here, folded in on herself so tightly and for so long that her bones ache and her muscles protest when she moves to lie down. She feels frozen, and trapped, like those fish beneath the icy pond in winter who are somehow still alive come spring. She closes her eyes, wraps her arms around herself, and wills herself warm. 

_I am warm. I am warm._

For a split second, she is, and she smiles a bit at the feeling of heat in her bones before she lets sleep take her.

-

When the knight falls into bed, armor set aside and chest bare despite the chill around him, he dreams. He dreams of a small girl far too young to survive the winter by herself, and yet she does. He dreams of his gloves, hot from his hands and the magic in them and nearly sliding off of her small fingers. 

-

She doesn’t know if it’s morning, afternoon, or evening when she wakes. She does know that her stomach aches, and she wills the hunger away. It works, for a while. 

“You did not eat.” 

His deep voice resonates beneath the metal of his helm, and she refuses to look at him as she sits back against the wall, stones cold and rough beneath the thin material of the tunic she’d inherited from Poe some odd years ago. It’s worn from washings, and too thin to protect her from the cold, a bit too tight, too. But it covers her, at least, and she tucks her hands into the too-short sleeves as she keeps her gaze steadily on the wall in front of her. 

“I’m not hungry,” she replies fiercely, keeping her voice sharp as she starts counting the stones on the far wall over again.

“Then starve.” 

Her gaze snaps to the door, her neck cracking so hard that she nearly feels pain as she watches him snatch the bowl back. He disappears in a storm of metal and dark wool, the fires extinguished once again and casting her into darkness. 

Rey sighs, tipping her head back to fight against the tears threatening to fall down her cheeks. 

She will return. She will. She will return to him.

-

The knight comes back not long after. Or, at least to her, it doesn’t seem that long after. An entire day could’ve passed, she doesn’t know. She can hear the clank of his armor as he descends the stairs, and watches him as he walks towards her cell. The walls around her don’t allow for a view of the dungeon, though judging from the echo of his footsteps it can’t be that big. She wonders who the last person to stay here was. There are no bones, thankfully, though there is dust that gathers on her fingers and leaves streaks on her already dirty clothes. It’s dry and cold, and she’s curled in on herself when he comes to stand in front of the door, holding another bowl of broth. He sets it down, some sloshing over the side of the wooden bowl. 

“You are a thief.” 

“Yes,” she admits, readily. That is what she is, yes. That is what she will forever be. “I am.”

“You sought to steal my roses.”

“Yes,” she replies. 

“What price were you told?” 

“500 gold.” 

“They are worth more. You were cheated.” 

She looks towards him, notices how he’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest. She tilts her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. The headache started hours ago, and has only worsened. The cramps in her stomach are worse as well, and she doesn’t wish to move as she hears the creak of his armor. 

“You are tired.” 

“Yes.” It’s such a short word, one syllable, but even it’s getting too heavy for her weak tongue now. She licks her dry lips, wishing desperately for something to drink. She glances towards the broth. Perhaps a sip-

No. She will now allow him the pleasure of feeding her. She feeds herself, and herself alone. 

“You are weak. I can feel it. You can eat, you know. The food contains no poison.” 

The thought hadn’t even occurred to her until he said it, honestly. She blinks at him, eyelids heavy. “I refuse.” 

“If I wished for you to die, I would’ve let your head crack in the garden.” 

“If this is your attempt at comfort, I urge you to try again,” she replies, pushing herself to her feet. She glares up at him as she walks forward, wrapping her arms around herself against the cold as she stands before him, just a few steps from being nose-to-chest. “I will not eat.” 

“Yes, you will.” 

“No, I will no-“ She stops as he raises his hand subtly, and goes to close her mouth to find that she can’t. She tries again, and her jaw screams in agony at her trying. She stops immediately, tears springing to her eyes at the pain of the attempt. 

“Yes, you will,” he replies, and she realizes his intent as he unlocks the door and steps inside, bringing the bowl with him. There is no spoon, but he lifts the bowl to her lips. It’s weakened broth, but it’s liquid all the same, and her throat is soothed by it and her body warmed by it as he tips it gently. It’s only a sip, but she finds that she’s able to close her mouth after the first, the rest of her body frozen but her face released from his grip. 

“Drink,” he orders, and she does. She allows herself five sips before closing her mouth, tightening her lips so that he can’t push through. She wonders if he’ll force her again, grab her chin and yank her mouth open. But he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps her still as he sets the broth bowl at her feet. His shoulder hits the door frame on the way back out, metal clanging against metal loud enough for her to wince as he closes the door and locks it again.

“Eat,” he says, as she feels her limbs again, fingers clenching and unclenching in the rough fabric of her tunic as she hugs herself tighter against the cold. 

It’s an order she won’t follow. 

-

“She is not eating.” 

Three days. Three days, and each time he has returned to her to see that her bowl is nearly full. A few mouthfuls consumed, at most. She seems to be allowing herself the bare minimum, if not less.

“Why is she not eating?” he demands of his second hand, looking towards the other man out of the corner of his eye as he stands at the balcony overlooking the sea, the cold wind biting into his bare skin where his gloves don’t quite cover and his cloak doesn’t quite wrap around the entirety of his neck. 

“Watered-down broth isn’t exactly appealing,” Hux replies, accent soft but voice hard as he narrows his eyes at the knight. “Perhaps some bread and cheese, or some fruit?” 

“Because we have so many fruit trees up here,” the knight mumbles. Though Hux is right – they do have apples, crisp ones from the few farmers in the North. 

“I can see a plate made up.” 

“No.” The word’s harsh in its delivery. “I will do it. I will bring it to her.”

“As you wish.” Hux is just as harsh, and not for the first time the knight wonders why he remains in the redhead’s company. Though, admittedly, he has no idea what he’d do without the other man. He nods, briefly, before moving to retrieve his helmet from his chambers. He fetches the helm and holds it under his arm as he makes his way to the kitchens. The plate is cool to the touch as he yanks a bit of bread from the loaf, grabbing an apple from the basket of them and some cheese before he makes his way down to the dungeons. Stopping on the steps, he uses his free hand to slip the helm over his head.

The torches remain just as bright as they had before, willed by his magic to stay lit always. He can just barely see her form on the floor, curled up against the cold as he sets the plate down and slides it beneath the small gap between the door and the stones. 

There’s no reaction. 

He frowns, watching her. Though she never speaks to him unless spoken to first, she has looked at him once or twice. Each time a glare. Now, her eyes are closed, her breathing slower than what should be normal. He casts his glance to the broth bowl, still filled from the night before, and looks towards her pale fingers. 

“Hell,” he breathes, reaching for the keys and unlocking the door, stepping in and kneeling beside her still form. He removes his gloves to feel for her pulse, and finds it only just fluttering beneath the soft skin of her jaw. Cursing once more, he scoops her into his arms. She’s a dead weight, much like she had been in the garden after he’d sent her into unconsciousness with a wave of his hand. Her head lolls back against his arm, and he keeps her close to his chest as he carries her up the staircase, leaving the plate of food behind. Hux’s eyes are curious, narrowed as he emerges. 

“Helmet,” the knight says, voice resonating against the metal. The other man reaches and pulls the helmet off of his master, tucking it beneath his slender arm as he watches the knight adjust the thief. 

“Is she dead?” the other man asks. 

“Not yet, but soon. I need broth, bread, and water in the east rooms. Is the fire going?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good.” 

She’s light in his arms. He wonders how regularly she ate before she attempted to steal from him. Probably not much. He can feel the jut of her ribs through her thin tunic, can probably slot his fingers between them if he tries. He looks down at her, noting that she’s only gotten dirtier since her capture. Streaks of grey dust are in her hair and across her cheeks, and her skin’s pale as he carries her towards the east rooms. He pushes the door open with a shove of his shoulder against the wood, and carries her towards the bed that hasn’t been slept in in years – decades, perhaps, though he knows full well Hux cleans the rooms on a regular basis. She’s limp as he lays her on it, and moves not an inch as he moves to the fire and puts more wood on it to blaze it brighter and hotter. He returns to her, and touches her cheek, thumb moving across her skin to brush a streak of grey from it. She’s cold and clammy to the touch, and he sets about remedying that, pulling the blankets over top of her to ensure that she’s warm, or at least warmer. 

She’s pretty. Prettier than he’d realized in the dimness of the dungeon. In the well-lit bedroom, he can see the delicate curve of her cheeks, the freckles across her nose from the summer months and the pink of her lips. 

“Interesting to see you preoccupied with someone other than yourself, Ren.” 

“Shut your mouth,” the knight growls as he turns to find Hux with a tray of broth and bread, as asked. “I need hot stones for the bottom of the bed.” 

“Yes, sir.” The man sounds amused as he leaves, and the knight turns back to the young woman before him, setting to slipping sips of broth between her lips. 

-

Warmth. 

That’s the first thing she feels. And, immediately, she wonders if she’s dead as she curls into it. Softness. That’s the next thing she feels. And it’s with awe that she realizes her throat and tongue are no longer dry, her head no longer pounding and her abdomen no longer aching.

Her eyes are still closed, limbs heavy as she feels the heat of a hand against her brow. 

“The fever?” 

“Less,” a voice says, and she recognizes it. The knight. The black knight. Only this time, there’s no metal tone to it. There’s no echo, no reverberation, no hollowness. It’s soft, and deep, and low to barely above a whisper as she feels fingertips against her temple, hot and gentle as they brush her hair. “But not gone.” 

The next words are lost to her, everything fading like dusk into night as she slips into sleep once again, unsure if it’s the fever’s doing or his.


	6. the attendant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response since the last chapter has been incredible, and I have no doubt that a lot of the new readers are because of the amazing fanart that cheesytriangle posted on Tumblr. I'll link once I get permission. :)  
> Thank you all so, so much for the wonderful response. This story is one of my favorites to write, and I'm so glad it's getting some traffic! I focused on my more high-traffic stories for a long time, but it's so much fun to come back to this one! Thank you again, and I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

The next time she wakes, it’s darker. It’s still warm, and it’s still soft, but it’s darker. She can just barely hear the crackling of the fire over the howling of the wind against the windowpanes, and she blinks, frowning in the low light. 

Plush isn’t something she’s familiar with. She’s used to straw as a mattress, or straw stuffed into fabric as a poor excuse for a mattress. She’s not used to feathers, or velvet, or fur, or anything that’s brushing up against her skin. She looks down briefly, seeing the dark curves and shadows of the blankets and throws. She blinks again, reaching a hand out to pass along a fur throw she’s entirely sure she would never have been able to afford in her entire life. Next is the velvet, and something so smooth that her callouses catch on it. She feels the resistance, hears the little _snick_ sound as she runs her fingers against it over and over. The scratch of her tunic is strange compared to the softness surrounding her, and part of her wants to strip bare and just lie in the nest that’s been tucked around her. It’s tempting, incredibly so, but that would also require more moving and she’s not sure she’s ready for that. 

She’s warm. She’s comfortable. Rey sighs, closing her eyes and never wanting to leave. 

Logic bleeds through, oil slowly being poured into water. It meets no resistance but doesn’t permeate. Why would she leave this? This is comfortable. This is safe-feeling, despite the knowledge of where she is. She doesn't want to leave, doesn't know why she should as she wakes further. She opens her eyes again, hand stilling as it brushes against the furs again and awareness comes back like an ink stain, spreading quickly through her veins. 

Poe. Poe’s why she would leave this, should leave this. Him, and the fact that she is without a doubt still in the castle, and therefore still _his_ prisoner. 

Rey sits up slowly, holding one of the blankets to her chest as she glances around the room. The fire’s low, barely illuminating anything on the far wall to her right, and she frowns as she catches the shadows of everything around her. It’s nothing she knows, every decorative curve and handle unfamiliar after a life of poverty. Her life and everything in it was made for a purpose, function before form, and even the beds and cupboards of the inns she stayed in so rarely were plain as could be. She frowns at the dramatic curls of the armoire, the clawed feet of a table before the fire. 

She needs to leave. She knows this, but her limbs feel like lead as she moves to untangle herself from the plush surrounding her. Her feet are bare, boots having been tugged off by someone - him, probably - and she looks down when her toes meet fur again instead of cold wood. She stands, looking back towards the bed longingly. 

The hitch of the doorhandle startles her, and her eyes dart to the door before her gaze moves to the window. In the dim light she can see the hinges, and she rushes towards it, pushing the glass open. Immediately she’s sprinkled with raindrops, soaking the front of her tunic. The wind is harsh and cold, and as she looks down she can only see black, not even a fire or the moon to help her with her escape. Regardless, she lifts her leg, hooking her knee on the sill and braces her hands against the frame, ready to climb out and down --

“I wouldn’t suggest that.” 

It’s by sheer dumb luck that she topples back instead of forward, the majority of her body still inside. The window slams closed as she hits the floor, and Rey turns to stare wide-eyed at the man who just walked through the door. 

She doesn’t recognize him, or his voice. She stares at him, taking in the high-neck black shirt and trousers that he’s wearing, the soft-soled shoes on his feet. He’s carrying a tray, firelight reflecting off of the silver, and he sets it down on the table by the fire. Her mouth waters as she sees the pink of a roast, and the crusty brown of a roll. She sits up a bit, pushing herself up onto the palms of her hands as she watches him. The tray bears a pot as well, and a cup, and she watches as he pours something from the pot into the cup before setting it aside. He then walks to the fire and tosses some more fuel onto it from the pile of wood beside the fireplace, and the room brightens slowly. She can see his face, now, and watches as the firelight catches on the red hair on his head, more groomed than she’s ever seen someone wear. He’s pale, like his skin’s never seen the sun – she supposes it’s a definite possibility, being so far North. His mouth’s in a firm line as he walks back to the table and starts to unload the dishes. She can see silver utensils, and steam rising from the cup he’d poured into, and a sliced apple and cheese and the roast. Her mouth waters more and her stomach aches for something of substance, but she doesn’t move as he sets everything in its place.

“We’re significantly higher than the wall you climbed, and if you were to slip and fall, you’d die and I’d have to clean you up,” the man says matter-of-factly, and she frowns at him. “It would be trouble for both of us.” 

“Dying is trouble,” she replies flatly, in disbelief, and he looks towards her. 

“Well, it’s not a pleasure,” he says simply. “Come. Eat.” 

“And if I’m not hungry?” Rey demands. 

“I have strict orders to watch you eat,” he replies, stepping back and pulling the chair with him. It’s a finer chair than she’s ever seen, firelight catching on the engravings and decorative carvings. The seat and back are cushioned as well, and she watches as he nods towards the seat. “Sit.” 

Picking herself off of the floor, she stands and walks towards him. He’s not the Black Knight. His voice is different, slightly higher and not as soft. She watches him carefully, eyes focused on him as she walks towards the table. Instead of sitting, she reaches forward and grabs a slice of apple, biting into it with a hard ‘crunch’ and watching him to see what he’ll do. 

He does nothing, says nothing and emotes nothing as she chews. It’s far sweeter than the smaller apples she’s stolen, far better than the mealy ones she’s snitched. She looks at the remaining bit in her hand, frowning at it before looking up at him. “There are tales of apples poisoned by jealous queens –“ Rey starts. 

“I can assure you that this apple is not one of them,” he replies, smirking a bit. “Though, if you were to have me eat it to assure you further, you probably shouldn’t have taken the first bite.”

She hums, raising an eyebrow at him as she takes another bite. After so long without proper food or drink, the juice of the apple quenches her thirst slightly and satisfies the need to chew on something at last. “Did he order you to make me eat?” she asks. She doubts she’ll need to explain exactly who ‘he’ is. 

“Yes,” the man replies simply. “I’m Hux.” 

“Who are you to him?” she questions as she settles into the chair, turning to watch him as he comes to stand beside her. 

His sigh is long, and she smirks. “Everything.” 

“Everything?” she questions, arching a brow at him. 

“I take care of the castle, order the guard, and am his – unfortunately – almost near constant companion.” He doesn’t sound happy about it, and as she finishes the first slice of apple she reaches for another, smiling around it as she bites. 

“It must pay well, then,” Rey offers, half a joke.

“It doesn’t pay at all, but he’ll have my life if I attempt to leave.” He walks towards a piece of furniture she doesn’t recognize. She’s never seen one like it before, a sort of table with a stool beneath it and a reflective surface on top. She stops chewing, watching as he bends and returns with a piece of fabric in his hands. She frowns as he shows it to her briefly before setting it on the bed. 

“He’s offered a change of clothing, if you’d like, and I can have a bath made if you’d like to wash off the dust and cobwebs from the dungeon.”

A bed softer than she’s ever known. Food better than she’s ever had. A bath, and a change of clothes that probably cost more than anything she’s ever worn except for maybe the prince’s gloves. She swallows, narrowing her eyes at the other man. “Am I still prisoner?” she asks, tearing off a bit of the bread and tucking it between her lips. She nearly moans, looking down at the roll in her hand. It’s buttery, and crunchy, and far from the burned ends she got whenever she stood outside the baker’s and gave him a bit of copper. 

“Yes,” he replies simply, and her gaze snaps to him again. “However, if you were to leave this room and wander out the castle door, I won’t stop you.” 

“How kind,” she deadpans around a mouthful of bread.

“However, I won’t give orders to the guard to miss or ignore you.” 

She stops mid-chew and stares at him. He sounds so self-satisfied about it, and she has no doubt that if she were to find a way to make it out the front door that she’d find an arrow in her back sooner than she could blink because of him. His smirk confirms it. 

“Surely our reputation for being impenetrable has passed along to whatever slum you’re from, little thief?” 

“Excuse you,” she insists, glaring. “Almost impenetrable. This little thief nearly escaped with one of your precious roses and is sitting here eating your roll under your Master’s orders.” 

His smirk broadens, and he bows his head briefly. “Forgive me.” He doesn’t mean it, she can tell, but he’s proved to be a far better companion than the Black Knight, so she reaches for the cup. It’s hot against her hands, and she sighs at the heat as it flushes her palms. “What is this?” she asks, looking up at him as she pulls the cup closer. 

“Tea,” he replies. “To help banish the fever.”

“I had a fever?” she asks, and she can remember vaguely the Black Knight saying that one was fading. She frowns as she lifts the cup to her lips, and hisses as she nearly burns her mouth on it. “Hell!” 

“It’s hot,” Hux says flatly, and Rey glares at him as she blows on the liquid and takes another sip. First it’s bitter, but then it’s sweet, and she hums as it warms seemingly her entire being. “Not eating with the combination of the cold made you weak enough to succumb to sickness.”  
She says nothing, though she does look down into the caramel color of the tea, holding the cup between her hands.

If the Black Knight were to spare her in the garden, surely he must have some use for her, or interest in her. The fact that she was brought to the room instead of left to die in the dungeon confirms her suspicions, but she doesn’t let Hux see her knowing smile as she brings the tea to her lips again. One step closer to escape, despite Hux’s confidence that she won’t. She avoided the guards once, who’s to say she won’t again? Who says she can't avoid him, too? 

She looks towards the window again. It was higher, he said. The storm’s not her friend right now; though the thunder and darkness would mask any noise or sight of her, the water slicking the stones would be her downfall – literally. No. No, she’ll wait. 

-

“Is she awake?” 

“Yes.”

“Did she eat?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did she drink?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did she put on the –“ 

“No,” Hux says immediately, and the knight turns to glare at the other man. His helmet’s abandoned on the table beside him, a book spread across his lap as he’d read, waiting for news of the thief. “And before you go asking other questions, she is fine. She tried to climb out the window, I stopped her before she could get far. She ate well, drank the tea, and we spoke.” 

“Spoke?” the knight asks, frowning, his word slow. “About?” 

“My position,” Hux replies, offering the knight a goblet of dark wine. The knight takes it, sipping it. “And that, if she were to exit the castle, the guards will have no mercy.” 

“They’re not alive, Hux, they can’t have mercy,” the knight mutters around the lip of the goblet.

“Must you snark?” 

“Must you give me the opportunity?” the knight asks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hux’s subtle shake of his head, the flash of the firelight against hair the same color. “You are a child.” 

The knight says nothing, sipping at his wine and returning his gaze down to the pages before him. 

-

The candlestick she holds in her hand could probably supply her for her entire life. Rey examines the silver, weighing it in her palm and feeling the red gems set into it, smooth as she runs her thumb over them. 

The case is the same for pretty much everything in the room. Even the small pot of floral-smelling oil on the table with the mirror could pay for her to live lavishly – by her standards – for life. And it’s just silver, small with shining pearl set into the lid. She hasn’t even bothered opening the wardrobes, instead picking up everything in plain sight and wondering how much she could get for it from Plutt, or maybe from other traders. Plutt’s stingy, she knows that for a fact, but it’s difficult to sell to traders who know when she’s stolen from others. 

The shift remains on the bed. She’d picked it up after Hux had left, examined the cream fabric. It’s softer than anything she’s felt against her skin, and it had taken all of her restraint to put it back down. Shifts aren’t good for running. Trousers and leggings are good for running, and that’s what she’s wearing. Though, with the storm outside, she can’t do much running anyway. 

Rey walks towards it, lifts it to the light again. 

The floral pattern is so subtle it’s almost missed, but if she dips her hand beneath the fabric she can see it against her palm. It’s not quite sheer, but much thinner than her wool tunic, and much, much softer. She runs her fingers over it for a few moments before moving her hands down to the belt of her tunic, pulling the leather from the buckle and setting it aside. She pulls the tunic over her head, grimacing at the smell of sweat and salt as the fabric passes over her face. Sure, it’s not unusual for her given her lack to a proper bath more often than not, and she’s not surprised after the news that she’d had a fever, but it’s not pleasant all the same. She sets it aside messily before pushing her trousers down her legs and stepping out of them. The band she has wrapped around her breasts is abandoned soon after, and she sets that on the floor as well before her eyes find the furs and velvet on the bed again.

Looking towards the door and keeping an ear out for the slight hitch of the handle, it’s all too easy to slip beneath the covers instead of pulling the shift over her head, satisfying her earlier urge to be bare beneath them. It feels even better than imagined, and she sighs, stretching her arms above her head to feel the plush pillows beneath her. She grins, looking up towards the canopy, embroidered with scenes from a story she does not know.  
This story will be interesting to tell Poe and Finn, when she returns. Climbing the castle walls, nearly stealing a rose, ending up in the dungeon and tricking the Black Knight to let her out of it. Lying bare in a lavish bed, surrounded by silk and fur and fabrics she doesn’t know the name of. She shifts, and then shifts again, delighting in the feeling of the sheets and covers and throws against her bare skin. It’s ridiculous, honestly, and so she lets herself laugh shortly as she moves again, missing the hitch of the door handle as it opens.

The sound of heavy footsteps startles her, and Rey sits up, eyes wide. Perhaps a second or two too late, she yanks one of the blankets to her chest, looking towards the man who’s come through the doorway. It’s the Knight, no doubt, though he doesn’t wear all his armor now. He’s in all black, like his attendant, and still wears the helmet on his head and black leather gloves. She can feel the weight of his gaze on her and pulls her knees up to her chest, eyes darting to where her clothes are still abandoned on the floor. The slightest movement of his helmet proves that he looks, too, and then she can see the visor as it’s directed right at her. 

Her heart’s caught in her throat, and she can feel heat rush to her cheeks as she keeps her arm across her chest, covering herself with the red blanket as he tilts his head. 

“Is this better?” 

She stares at him, processing the words that echoed inside his helmet, before she realizes that he’s talking about the room and her new situation. “Yes,” Rey says curtly, wishing desperately that she’d at least put the damn shift on before rolling in the bed again. Now she’s stuck, obviously naked beneath the blankets and sheets she’s holding to her, and staring at her captor as he nods slightly.

“I … I apologize.” 

It’s surprising to hear him stutter, and she watches as he nods again, a bit more firmly this time before turning and retreating. The door slams so hard behind him that it rattles the mirror, and rocks a few other unsteady things in the room. She’s left staring at the door, still holding the blankets to her chest. 

Apologize. 

Apologize for what, exactly?

She lowers her legs, watching the door for any more movement. Apologize for taking her? Apologize for putting her in the dungeon? Apologize for walking in on her without any sort of notice? 

Rey slips from the bed and grabs at the shift, yanking it over her head quickly. The laces in the front go to just above her navel, so she tightens them until the fabric is clinging to her, tying the top in a messy bow just above her breasts. The sensation is strange, fabric against her legs; she’s not used to dresses, more used to trousers and leggings and bare skin when sleeping. But she’s not adverse to it, looking down to where the hem brushes her ankles. It’s too short, the sleeves hitting her mid-forearm, but it fits well enough.

She’d done nothing wrong, to her knowledge. And though it was a bit obvious what she was doing, given her bare shoulders and her clothes left in a pile on the floor, he couldn’t have seen much. So why does she still feel like her stomach’s turned to lead and her cheeks and chest are on fire?

A clap of thunder is followed quickly by a flash of lightning, and Rey looks towards the window. It had closed after she fell from it, wind stronger than anything she’s ever experienced. Perhaps its their relativity to the sea; she could smell the salt when she opened it briefly. She wonders just how close they are, wonders if she’ll be able to see when the storm goes away. 

That is, if it goes away. He’d frozen her in time. Perhaps he’s capable of creating storms to keep her from escaping as well. 

“There is still hope,” she mutters, as a reassurance. There is always hope, even in the most desperate of situations. An infection on her thigh turned into meeting Finn, and the scar forever a reminder of their friendship. Meeting Finn turned into meeting Poe. 

The harshest winter in memory turned into meeting the prince, though brief as it was, and receiving the gloves she wishes she still had. Rey smiles a bit, the right corner of her mouth quirking up slightly as she recalls the heat of his hands, the size of his ears and the warmth of his eyes. He’d gone off to marry some princess in the Southern regions, so rumor had. Of course. She longs for the described sunshine and warmth now, chill starting to seep through the thin shift now that she’s no longer beneath the covers. 

Weariness is starting to set in. She’s not surprised; according to Hux, she’d been out for almost two days fighting the fever. She’s still in recovery. She sits back on the bed and slips beneath the covers, pulling them up to her chest before curling into the pillows, sighing softly through her nose. Might as well make the most of it; a candlestick or a small pot of perfume, she could smuggle. A fur blanket? That’s doubtful, even with as much luck as she’s had so far. She might as well take advantage of the luxurious comfort while she can - she knows damn well she'll never have it again once she escapes, no matter how much silver she sells. 

The slightest click of the door catches her attention, and she stills, eyes widening. She turns over, glancing towards it as it cracks open just a bit. She can only see black through the sliver, but she knows exactly who it is when the candles Hux had lit dim seemingly on their own. She focuses her attention on one, watching as the flame gets smaller and smaller before being extinguished entirely. He does the same for the rest, and the room gets darker and darker with each candle put out. By the time he’s through, only the fire is lit, and she’s left in near darkness as the door is closed again, and she hears the turn of a lock, the final sound of a bolt being slid into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rey's shift is inspired by Elizabeth Swann's shift from Rum Island, from the Pirates of the Caribbean movies: http://www.costumersguide.com/pirates_plum/shift14.jpg and http://www.costumersguide.com/pirates_plum/shift3.jpg


	7. the guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Hux is my new favorite thing. I just love him so much, and there is so much to do with him. Thank you all for sticking with this story even as I didn't update as soon as I'd hoped! And thank you for all the kind comments and kudos!

“If you’re going to be in here, you can’t do that.” 

The knight stops in the middle of the kitchen floor, looking up from the stones to look at where Hux is cutting carrots. “Do what?” he questions, narrowing his gaze at his second hand.

“Pace. It’s infuriating.” 

“What would you rather I do instead?” 

“How about stand still?” Hux asks curtly, cutting the carrot a bit more ferociously and tossing it into the pot before reaching for a potato. “Stand still, and stop panicking.”

“Hux, I saw –“

“I’m aware of what you saw, you barged in not twenty minutes ago and declared it,” Hux mutters, swiftly cubing the potato and scooping it up onto the blade. He tosses it into the pot, looking up towards the knight as he reaches for another potato.

The knight runs his hand through his hair, shaking his head. “I didn’t-“

“You didn’t mean to walk in. You didn’t mean to forget to knock. Ren, it’s common decency to knock on a lady’s room, I thought you would know that.”

“I do know that!” The knight’s fist finds a nearby wooden table that’s seen better days and rocks precariously on its weak legs, and Hux looks down to see the potato he’d moved on to bounce slightly at the force and nearly roll off the table. He quickly grabs it and sets it down on the flat, cut edge, making quick work of the rest of it and scooping it into the pot.

“Then remember it,” Hux replies, eyes on his work. “Seeing her was no one’s fault but your own, and you know that damn well.”

The redhead looks up towards the knight. The black helmet’s abandoned on one of the side tables. When the knight had rushed in, he’d still worn the helmet, and Hux swore steam was going to come out of the visor. The man’s face was almost entirely red, tips of his large ears pink as well as he’d stammered what he’d seen of the young thief. Which, in reality, wasn’t much. A bit of shoulder, a bare arm, the slightest curve of her breast as she scrambled to cover herself. But Hux could gather what she’d been doing from the knight’s description, and smirks to himself as he continues to cut the potato and slip it into the pot. He doesn’t blame her; from the dirt covering her skin and the poor excuse for proper clothes she’d worn, he wouldn’t be surprised if she slept on the streets for her entire life. Surely this is the most wealth she’s ever seen or known. If she wants to roll bare in the bed, so be it. 

“Embarrassed by a bit of skin,” Hux mutters as he reaches for another carrot. “I’m surprised, Ren.” 

“Surprised at what?” the knight growls. 

“That you saw her naked this early. I thought it would’ve taken at least another month or so. Maybe more, now that you’ve set yourself back further in your wooing.”

Hux watches the man’s face turn even redder, and hums as the knight grabs his helmet and storms off without another word. 

-

The next time the knight opens her door, she’s beneath the covers. And this time, he can see the neckline of the shift that he’d given her, notices the cream fabric covering her shoulder as she turns over to look at him; or, at least, look at him as much as she can between the door and the frame. He doesn’t give much room, having left his helmet back in his own rooms and only wanting to check on the young thief he’d taken as his guest. Without the visor in the way, he can see that the room is lighter than it should be for sleep, and he frowns a bit. Hux hadn’t come by to extinguish the candles, it seems. Well. He can do it himself. 

It only takes the slightest bit of his power to dim the candles slowly. One by one, the knight extinguishes them, leaving her in the dark aside from the fireplace. Satisfied, he closes the door and slides the metal bolt into place, lingering with his fingers on the cool iron for perhaps a bit too long. 

She is a thief. She tried to steal from him. He has to remind himself of it as he walks away, willing the torches in the hall to burn just a bit brighter to light his way through the dark castle. 

-

Sleep comes easy for her, snuggled in warmth with rain pattering against the glass pane of the window. Her dreams are a collage of what she likes to think are memories; warm lips, hot fingers, soft fur surrounding her cold fingers, big ears and dark hair. She wakes briefly to Hux putting another log on the fire, the crack of the wood loud but the heat it brings welcome. She curls in further as the door closes. 

-

“10 days.”

“Poe-“

“10 days, Finn. She said she’d be back in a fortnight.” 

“Poe, she's fine. There's word of a storm ravaging the North. I'm sure that she's taken shelter and is waiting for it to hold out. It's not yet a fortnight, there are four days left."

Poe yanks his helmet from his head, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat as he pants in his armor. A training exercise, to get them used to using the heavy metal plates made to protect them. He hates these exercises, hates the metal and the heat and the smell of rust. “It might as well have been a fortnight. I thought the North was a three day ride, that's what I've heard. .” 

“It entirely depends on conditions.” Finn pulls his helmet from his own head, bracing it on his hip and resting the tip of his sword against the ground. “She said a fortnight, with luck. A storm isn't luck.” 

He’s right. Poe knows that he’s right. But he can’t shake the feeling of lead in his stomach, the feeling that something is very very wrong with the woman that he loves. He stabs his sword into the ground, watching as it stands on his own before looking back at Finn. “She’s in trouble, I can feel it.” 

“You can’t feel when you’ve forgotten breakfast,” Finn insists jokingly. “She’ll be fine. I’m willing to bet that tomorrow she’ll be riding back on that horse with a whole armful of black roses, and with her wealth she’ll buy herself a manor and take you with her and you’ll wed.”

Wed. He’d like that. He’d like that a lot, actually, though he’s doubtful of the chances of it happening. “She’d never wed me, are you fooling? She’d never settle down. She wouldn’t want to be a wife.” He pulls his sword from the ground and lunges towards Finn, catching the other man off guard. Finn’s eyes widen and be grabs his sword to block Poe’s advance, laughing as the older guard grins. “She’s too independent! Can you imagine us having children?” Poe asks, laughing. 

“They’d be attractive,” Finn says with a shrug, their swords hitting once again with a loud ‘clang’. 

“And impossible to care for,” Poe retorts. “I can’t see her as a mother. No, she’d like to travel, see the world.” 

“Then go with her.” 

“Alderaan needs -“

“Alderaan needs its guards to wear their helmets!” 

Poe stops as their commander yells at them, and snorts as he lifts his helmet and puts it back on his head. “I will go with her,” he says as Finn puts his own helmet on. “I will follow her wherever. And I will follow her North to get her if I must.”

-

The sound of a bucket being emptied shocks her into wakefulness. All too many times she’s been woken by water, poured over her by a cruel farmer’s wife or a farmhand to get her up and out. She braces herself for it, jerking and curling in on herself. It’s her skin sliding against the sheets that brings her back, and she opens her eyes to the room in the castle once more. 

The storm hasn’t stopped. Rey can hear the water against the window as she sits up and looks out towards the room, frowning at the same sound of a bucket being emptied from somewhere nearby. As long as it’s not on her, she supposes as she slips from her tangle of bedsheets, wrapping one of the silken ones around her shoulders as she steps from the bed. It’s colder, now, the chill of the storm seeping through the stones. But the furs and rugs on the floor warm her feet, and she follows the sound of the bucket emptying again. 

“I was wondering when you were going to wake.” 

Hux is standing beside a tub, setting the bucket back on top of the fire. Rey stares at the white tub, some sort of sleek material that she’s never seen before in her life. She holds the sheet to her, frowning. “What is this?” 

“A bath,” the man says matter-of-factly. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had one. Though, I wouldn’t be surprised if you did tell me.” 

Rey glares at him, crossing her arms over her chest and watching him as he waits for the water to warm. “I have,” she snaps. “But not in something like this.”

“I’m not surprised,” Hux replies, looking up towards her. “Let me guess, you bathed in whatever little creek you could find?” 

“Less chance of splinters than the inn’s tubs,” she says flatly in explanation. 

He stares at her, looking just a bit disgusted with her as he tests the water’s temperature with his fingers and pulls his hand back. “Mm. Shocking,” he says, just as flatly, and she knows that, to him, it’s not shocking in the least. 

“One has to make due with what one has,” Rey insists harshly. “I apologize if that’s not enough for you and your lavish lifestyle.”

The man says nothing as he tests the water again, deems it acceptable, and pulls it from the fire. He pours the water into the tub before filling it again with a pump nearby. The silence is filled with the sound of the rushing water outside and the water pouring into the bucket. He sets the bucket on the fire again and waits. 

“When it’s ready, I will pull the screen over,” he explains, nodding towards a wooden screen leaning against the wall. “I’ve been told not to leave the room, but I will give you your privacy as much as I can.”

“How kind of you,” Rey mutters darkly as he walks to what looks to her like a bookshelf, but it has a variety of jars and bottles on it, many of them like the silver one on the table with the mirror in the other room. “What are those?” 

“Perfumes,” Hux explains, returning with two bottles and a silver box in his hand. “And soap.” 

“Soap?” Rey asks, frowning. 

“You’ve never used it?” Hux demands. 

“I have,” she insists, glare returning and aimed towards the man.

Hux sets the bottles down near the tub and walks over, opening the silver box to her. Inside is a small, white bar of soap, and Rey immediately smells lavender. It smells of the fields just outside the city walls, where the purple grows in the spring and summer and she collects twigs of it to sell to the soapmaker in the market for a copper or two. She takes it from the box and lifts it to her nose. There are other scents here, too – ones she can’t name but recognizes from the days of the foreign traders in the market. She rubs her thumb along the smooth surface of the soap. It’s finer than anything she’s ever used, far softer. “Where do you get these things?” she questions, frowning as she looks up at Hux. 

“Traders,” Hux explains. “Ships who pass by on the way to other ports.” 

“Do you have a port?” 

“A dock.” He jerks his head towards the window. “By the bottom of the cliffs. They anchor and then deliver the wares. He pays them handsomely. They always return.”

She looks down at the soap in her hand as he turns to fetch the last bucket of water from the fire.

Rey watches as he pours oils from the bottles in, and she blinks as she smells the rare orange fruit that appears in the summer months in the market, with its tough, inedible flesh and squirting juice. It’s a smell not easily forgotten, and she steps towards the water as he pours some of the other in. This one she knows very well. This one is embedded in her earliest memories, when little fingers stroked smooth petals and she buried her little nose in plush petals. “Roses.”

“Made from the ones in the garden,” Hux explains, corking the bottle again and setting it aside. He sets the soap on the edge of the white tub, nodding at her. “Let me pull the screen over, and then you can get in.” 

“Thank you.” And she finds she means it as he lifts the screen over and unfolds it, hinges creaking a bit. There’s a wall between them, now, flimsy though it is. He makes no move to cross over his side, though, and she drops the sheet from her shoulders as she looks towards the tub. She puts her hand on the side of it, and finds the side cool. A quick hand in the water proves that it’s hot, and she yanks her hand back, splashing loudly. 

“Do you need help?” He sounds amused. 

“No,” she snaps back, quickly pulling the shift up and over her head and tossing it to the floor. The water stings as she steps in, and she shivers in the storm-cooled room as she sinks in. After, though, the water comes above her shoulders and she hums, settling back. It’s warmer than the creek in the summer, by far; warmer than any water she’s had at an inn, too. She sinks in a bit more, knees just poking out of the water and chin resting on top of it. 

Rey looks to the side as she hears Hux step towards her. He’s quick in his grabbing of the sheet and shift, avoiding looking at her as he bends to pick them up. She can see another shift on a nearby chair, folded impeccably. She’s entirely unsurprised, smirking a bit as the man folds the dirty shift and the sheet neatly before setting them aside to be washed. 

He steps back behind the screen again, and she hears the scrape of a chair along the stone floor, the creak of the wood as he settles into it. She sits up, grabs the soap from the silver box, and runs it along her arm, delighting in the feeling of it against her skin. It’s smoother than she’s known, and she rubs at it, smiling as it leaves her skin soft and smelling like lavender and the honey she so often indulged in from the baker’s.

The few occasions she treated herself to a bath from the inn, the water was never this warm. The tubs were never this big, and often were wooden and rough. Now, she doesn’t have to pull her knees to her chest, and the heat of the water turns her skin pink the longer she sits. She finishes washing her arms, chest, and shoulders before setting the soap aside and sinking a bit deeper, letting the water come back up to her shoulders. She looks towards the screen at the rustle of pages. She can’t see Hux through the wood, of course, but she knows that he’s there. 

“Who is he?” she asks. 

“Whom?” he questions, voice flat as there’s the sound of a page flipping once more. 

“The Black Knight,” Rey replies. “Surely he has to be someone of importance to have this castle and all of this wealth.”

“Or we just make a fine profit off of those roses you were so inclined to steal,” Hux replies. “I won’t be telling you who he is. Don’t ask again.” 

It’s said so harshly that she sinks a bit lower, letting the water lap at the curve of her chin. She takes the opportunity to dip below the water, running her fingers through her hair to rid of it the snags and dirt and dust. It already feels better, lighter. She reaches for the soap and uses it on her hair, as well, rubbing at it until it squeaks against her fingers. Then she sits up, gasping a bit and slicking her hair back, running her fingers through it to rid if of knots.

“Don’t drown.” 

It’s said so flatly that she snorts, rubbing her hands against the soap and then rubbing her palms along her leg. “I make no promises.”

When she’s finished washing, she just sits, not wanting to get out of the warm tub quite yet. The man on the other side of the screen says nothing about how long she spends with her arms wrapped around her legs in the warm water, eyes focused on the storm still raging outside. The room’s filled with the sound of water against glass, the crackle of the fire, the occasional rumbles and claps of thunder and her splashing as she adjusts a bit. 

Eventually he walks around, and now he does look at her. She has her knees to her chest, and stares up at him as he fetches a towel that looks just as soft as some of the blankets on the bed. He offers it, and she takes it as she stands, wrapping it around herself as he looks away. 

“… have you ever cared for a woman before?” Rey asks as he pushes his sleeve up and reaches into the tub, pulling the cork plug from the bottom and letting it drain. She wonders how that works. The tubs in the inns were always dumped. “Like you take care of him?” 

“No.” It’s a simple answer, but not as curt as she would’ve expected from him. He dries his arm, pulls his sleeve down. “There is a shift on the chair. I’ll return with breakfast shortly.”

“Thank you.” Again, she means it as he nods once and leaves, taking the sheet and other shift with him. 

She feels better than she has in years, and yet she can’t shake the fear that itches beneath her skin like when she’s spent too long out in the sunny town square, flesh pink and tender. She walks to the shift, drying herself off and pulling it on quickly. This one’s similar to the one she had before, the same laces down the front and the same sleeve length, the skirt a bit too short for her. But it fits well enough, and is warm against the chill of the castle. She folds the towel a bit haphazardly just to spite the redheaded man, but then unfolds and refolds it a bit more neatly. After all, he’s done nothing but help her. Perhaps he has judged her for her upbringing and mannerisms, but he’s helped her nonetheless.

By the time she exits, he’s already back in the bedroom with a plate of food. Apples and honey and what looks like some kind of bread, but nothing like she’s ever seen in the bakers. She walks over, noting the same cup of steaming tea. She reaches for it, blowing on the top before taking a sip as he arranges everything perfectly. She hums. “How long have you been working for him?”

“10 years,” Hux replies, gaze still on his work. “Sit. Eat.” 

She obeys, settling into the chair and reaching for a slice of apple. Rey dips it into the small bowl of honey, watching as a strand of sweet liquid spills from the fruit back into the pool. It takes a moment to break, but when it does, she pulls it in and bites. It’s a combination that reminds her of the treats she bought in the summer, sticky apples covered in honey and nuts sold during festivities. She licks honey from her fingers as she watches Hux, frowning. “Did you have a family?” 

“Yes.” It’s said quickly, curtly. “… four brothers.” 

“Four?” she asks, reaching for the slice of bread on the plate. She’s quickly stopped by Hux, who holds out a silver fork. “… what?” 

“It’s called a fork," he snaps. "You use it to-“ 

“I know what a fork is,” Rey mutters, taking it from him and severing a bite off of the bread. 

“Well, with how you consumed the roll yesterday, I wasn’t entirely sure.” 

She glares at him as she takes a bite of the bread, and then frowns down at her plate. It tastes of the same honey that's with the apples, and egg. “.. this is good,” she says, surprise lacing her voice. She's never had something like this before, the bread she's always had a bit burnt because it's cheaper and never presented on a plate. Even the sticky buns she treated herself to never came on a plate. 

“Thank you.” The man preens a bit, smirk a bit smug. “It’s one of the Master’s favorites.” 

“He likes sweet things,” Rey mutters, taking another bite. Between the apple and the honey and this bread, it’s almost overwhelming. She takes a sip of the bitter tea to cut the sugar on her tongue. “Interesting.” 

“He’s much like a child,” Hux mumbles back, and she snorts. 

“Taking what he likes as he sees fit?” she questions, raising an eyebrow. 

“Says the thief,” Hux deadpans.

“There’s a difference between taking what you like, and taking in order to survive,” Rey insists, glaring towards the other man. She sets her fork down, leans on the table towards him. “You know nothing of me, or my life. My savings went towards a horse to come here and try my luck at a fairy tale because I saw no way out of what I had – which was nothing. Don’t compare me to … to a creature in a mask. He took because he can. I take because I have to. I either take, or I give, and trust me when I say that taking is the better option.” She grabs another apple as she snaps, “You know nothing of me.”

The manservant says nothing. She hadn’t expected him to. She dips the apple in honey, and bites down hard enough that the ‘crack’ of the fruit is louder than the crackle of the fire, at least to her ears.

He continues to be silent as she finishes eating. Used to small portions or even nothing at all, the feast in front of her is too big, and she eats only half of the delicious food in front of her. She loathes to see it go, thinking it a waste as Hux stacks everything to take it back to the kitchens. 

“Can I keep the tea?” Rey asks, holding the warm cup in her hands and watching as he nods. 

“I’d suggest it.” They’re the first words spoken to her since her outburst. “It will help the sickness.” 

She nods, taking another sip and watching as he leaves. She nods when he tells her he’ll be back mid-evening for dinner, and listens for the bolt of the door like she’d heard last night when the knight closed her door. 

She doesn’t hear it, doesn’t hear the finite clank of the metal sliding home. Perhaps it was an honest mistake, or perhaps he trusts that she won’t escape when the weather’s like this. Either way, the lack of a lock makes her smirk around the lip of the cup, taking one more sip before standing and heading towards the door. 

-

“She didn’t eat it all.” 

Hux glances up to find the knight leaning against one of the wooden tables in the kitchen. He sets the silver tray down and starts to unload it, setting the bowl of apples aside. The knight walks over and takes a slice of one, biting into it with the same harshness as the thief. “No,” he says simply. “Her stomach’s unused to so much food. It will be a while before she eats the entirety of it, as small as the portions are.”

The knight hums around the apple. Hux notices that his helmet’s abandoned on the table he’d been leaning against, a dent in the side of it. He’ll have to fix that, but for now he frowns, staring at it. “… that’s the third time this week that you’ve dented your damn armor,” Hux mutters, shaking his head as he finishes unloading the plates and walks over to the helmet. He picks it up, tapping his finger against the dent. “What did you do to it?” 

“Threw it,” the knight mumbles around the fruit. 

“Because?” 

Now it’s silent, and Hux sighs, shaking his head as he sets the helmet down and walks back over to toss the remaining food into the waste. “Your temper is horrific.” 

“Your attitude’s worse,” the knight insists, crossing his arms over his chest. “How was she?” 

“Better. She bathed.” Hux looks up to see if there’s any reaction to that little image, and smirks a bit as he notes the pink of the knight’s ears. “The girl bathes in creeks on a normal basis. No wonder she looked like she came from the forest. The water was filthy when she was finished. I can’t imagine.” He shakes his head. “Are you still intent on returning her to the dungeon when she’s fully well?” 

“Yes,” the knight insists. “And then we will decide what to do with her.” 

“You could’ve done that days ago, but no, you had to think about it,” Hux replies, taking the bowl of apples from the knight. The other man scrambles for the fruit, grabbing two more slices. “You should’ve let her fall to her death instead of letting your selfish desire for entertainment get in the way.” 

“The last intruder we had didn’t get two steps past the guards, and I’ve grown sick of you. Forgive me for wanting someone new.”  
“It’s more than wanting someone new. You’re just too hard-headed to admit it,” Hux says, tapping his nail against the helmet for emphasis. 

“Careful with that!”

“… I do hope you see the irony in what you just said.”


	8. the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Brief asphyxiation in this chapter

The castle’s massive. She should’ve expected it, honestly, given the size of her room. The stones are cold against her bare feet as she walks the halls, fingers skimming along the painted walls. She’d looked for her boots in her room, but along with her old clothes, Hux must’ve either washed them or deemed them too disgusting to wear again. Opting for bare feet, she left the room in favor of exploring her vast prison. 

The storm outside makes everything a bit darker, a bit greyer, and she’s grateful for the lit sconces along the walls. The windows rattle as the wind whips around the structure, but inside is warm and stable. 

Rey takes her time, fingers brushing along decorative wall murals. Every so often she’ll find one with a panel that has a carving along it, and she traces the scenes of a land she’s unfamiliar with, fingertips finding the ripples of a lake and the leaves of trees. There are no lakes here, not that she knows of. She’s only seen the sea, the port of Alderaan on the few occasions she’s stolen from the more questionable port market. The carvings on the walls show a land she doesn’t know, filled with lakes and flowers she doesn’t recognize and trees she’s never seen or climbed. 

She wonders where it is, what it’s called, wonders if the knight’s been there. Similar scenes recur as she makes her way down the hall. Most of the doors are locked to her. She tries every handle and meets resistance each time, and she wonders if Hux has the keys somewhere. 

The one that does open for her is another bedroom. The window offers little light as she steps inside. It doesn’t make sense to light the fire for her own curiosity; there’s no wood in the basket, anyway. She doesn’t linger long in there. The room smells clean; of pine oil, of cedar and soap. No one’s lived there for a long time. It’s almost sad to see as she stands in the middle of it, glancing around briefly.

She hopes someone occupied it at some point. This castle’s too big for just two men. It would be a complete waste. 

The next door that opens for her leads to a room almost three times the size of hers, twice as tall and much, much more used, if the half-full pastry plate and tea set on a nearby table are anything to go by. She can see the blankets surrounding a large chair, can see the stack of books beside it. 

A library, she realizes as lightning flashes and illuminates the entire room for a split second. She’s in a library. A vast one, with more books than she’s ever seen in her entire life. Her breath hitches as she steps inside, closing the door quietly behind her before stepping further into the room. 

The bookstore in the city’s a small, cramped space. Rey’s stepped in occasionally, to smell the paper and leather and ink and musty air. But being mostly illiterate puts a damper on actually buying or reading the books, and she looks up at the tomes in the floor-to-ceiling shelves longingly, stepping forward and wondering desperately if any of them have enough pictures for her to get some gist of the story.

She can recognize prices, and the signs of the stores and the labels on the market tables. She knows ‘basket’ and ‘bread’ and ‘gold’ and ‘silver’ and a handful of other common words. And she guesses that she can recognize letters and fit them together if she really tries, but there’s hardly time to practice. She’d much rather spend a few gold on some bits of salted meat and bread that’ll last her a week or so instead of a small tome that’ll give her a headache and weigh her sack down.

It’s warmer in here than in the hallway, and she steps forward towards the collection of pastries, snagging a cookie decorated with a sugar glaze and a red berry she’s never had before. It’s tart as it explodes on her tongue, and she hums as she walks towards one of the shelves. 

The leather of the book spines is smooth beneath her fingers, and she traces the gold letters, tilting her head to the side to see it properly. It’s some name she doesn’t recognize and can’t pronounce for the life of her, even if she tries to sound out the letters. So she shrugs and moves on, running her fingers along the bindings as she walks, chewing the flaky cookie. 

The further in she gets, the darker it becomes. The air is cooler back here, but she wants to see how far the shelves go. They go pretty far, and she’s finished the cookie by the time she gets to the end and turns the corner to hear firm footsteps walk close. 

She stops and swallows quickly, ducking back behind the shelf she was just walking along as she hears the footsteps pass down the aisle she’d almost walked into. Worrying her lower lip, she waits as they pass just behind her, too close for comfort in this dark aisle.

She waits until the footsteps have passed before she steps forward again, lingering on the edge of the aisle. She can see the knight, his form broader than Hux’s and a cloak clipped to his shoulders. The warm firelight glints off of dark hair, and she stares, realizing that his helmet is set beside the chair instead of on his head. 

_So he does take it off…_

His hand isn’t gloved as he reaches for one of the pastries. She can’t see his head anymore, too far away to see him properly around the high back of the winged chair. 

He’s a man, at least, she decides as she watches his pale hand reach for the cup of tea. Wanting a closer look, she steps forward and freezes as the floorboard creaks beneath her foot. 

Hell.

“Hux, the tea’s cold.” 

Her breath is caught in her throat, wondering how to respond when the man in question answers instead. 

“That’s what happens when you leave it for an hour, sir. It cools down.” 

She bites her lip at Hux’s snark to keep from laughing as she watches him come around the corner, a stack of books in his hands. He swipes one from the table holding the pastries and starts to walk towards her. She inhales sharply and ducks into the shadows again, hoping to hell and back that the second hand won’t notice her.

He walks into the next aisle, and she nearly breathes a sigh of relief as she looks back to the knight sitting in his chair. She wants to take another step, get closer, see his face-

A cool hand covers her mouth, and she inhales again, eyes going wide as she feels the press of a hard chest against her back, too close for comfort.

“If you don’t want to lose your head tonight, I suggest you stay quiet, stay still, and do as I say.” 

She jerks her shoulder back, trying to get him to release her. Instead he grabs her wrist, grip hard enough to bruise even as she tries to step on his foot. 

_“Enough.”_

She stops, temped to knock his hand away, to twist out of his grasp like she did so often to the men who tried to grab her in the market place, but the knight speaks again, voice low and booming.

“I need more tea. Hot, this time.” 

“It was hot last time, as well,” Hux calls back, his voice too close to her ear before he lets her go. “Before you let it cool.” 

In the dull light, she can barely see the attendant as he slips away. “Stay here,” he says, voice hard. “Don’t move, don’t speak, and for _God’s sake_ don’t touch anything.”

There’s an edge to his tone, harsh like the orders she so often hears from the guards in the city, and she finds herself staying still as he steps towards the knight. Rey watches him go, the dark of his coat as he walks forward towards the gold tray holding the pastries and teapot. He makes to take it, and the knight takes the plate of cookies off of it, transferring it to the table without taking his eyes from the book. 

Hux gives the barest shake of his head and starts to walk by, tray balanced on one hand before he opens the library door with the other. It barely squeaks, and she stays in the shadows before he nods to her, jerking his head towards the open door. 

She keeps her footsteps light on the wood floor, rushing past the aisle and nearly knocking her shoulder into the end of it before she’s slipping under Hux’s arm to exit the library. 

He starts in the opposite direction immediately, not even bothering to look at her as he starts to walk back towards what Rey assumes is the kitchens. She stays in her place, stone cool on her bare feet as she looks towards the vast library door again, wondering if she should even try to return and catch another glimpse of the man beneath the helmet. 

“If you feel like gallivanting about the castle, then by all means, do as you wish. But don’t wail to me if he slams you back into that cell.” 

His voice echoes along the empty hall, and she jerks her gaze back to him. He’s still walking, red hair glinting in the low firelight, and getting further and further away. Reluctantly, wordlessly, she follows him, grateful for the slightly-too-short shift so she can run to catch up with him. 

“So he’s a man,” she says, recalling the pale hand and dark hair. 

The man beside her snorts, the sound unkind and mocking. “Of course he’s a man, what did you expect? A troll? A beast?” 

“He doesn’t act like a man,” Rey mutters. “He is cruel.” 

“Men are cruel,” Hux says matter-of-factly. “Surely you knew that when you made the decision to spend your life taking instead of giving? There had to be a basis for that choice.” 

Hux reaches down to adjust the teapot, centering it more on the tray. Seeing one half eaten cookie on the plate, Rey reaches on her toes to snag it, nibbling on the unbitten side. He raises an eyebrow at her, and she does likewise in return, but he says nothing about her habits. 

“He isn’t as cruel as he could be,” Hux mutters. “He could’ve left you in that dungeon when you passed out from exhaustion and sickness. He could’ve let you die. But instead he scoops you up, puts you into bed himself, and gives me the wonderful task of bathing and feeding and making sure you are nursed back to health. He isn’t cruel.” 

She stops mid-nibble on the cookie, frowning. “He put me into bed himself?” 

“Yes,” Hux says simply, and from his tone she knows that the conversation is over. “Do you need anything?” 

“No,” she mutters, resuming eating the cookie. It’s flaky and buttery, and she looks down as she gets some crumbs on the borrowed shift. She frowns and brushes them off of her chest, hearing him snort. 

“I suggest you return to your room before he finds you.” 

“You said he wasn’t cruel,” Rey replies, raising a brow at him. 

“I said he isn’t as cruel as he could be,” Hux says as he continues walking, seemingly indifferent to her following or not. So she doesn’t, and watches him turn the corner before she starts walking in the opposite direction, away from her rooms.

-

She’s lost almost instantaneously. The other hall she could manage; it was a straight shot back to her room, a perfect path. Now, after getting to the end of the hall and turning a right and slipping through a few doors that just happened to be open, she’s terribly turned around. 

The murals on the walls are no help at all. They look almost identical to the ones along the hallway to her room, lakes and flowers and trees and hints of hills. She stops paying attention to them after a while, frustrated when the only change seems to be the people’s clothing. And remembering that the girl’s in a yellow dress is futile; in a dozen paces, she finds at least three panels with the girl in a yellow dress.

The halls are warmer here. Perhaps she’s travelling more into the castle, away from the chill of the storm. She finished the cookie a while ago, and now her fingers trail along the walls again, lingering on the frames of paintings that have been covered up with cloth nailed into the wood. She wonders what they’re of to be covered up so harshly.

 _A man,_ she thinks as she walks along. _So her captor’s a man._

The fact should be entirely unsurprising. She’s felt his hands on her, and heard his voice. She’s seen his body, albeit covered in armor and cloth, but there’s nothing missing. She’s heard tales of men’s heads replaced with that of a beast, or body replaced entirely. He stands like a man, speaks like a man, and acts as cruel as a man. Why shouldn’t he be a man? 

_He isn’t as cruel as he could be._

Hux’s words echo in her mind, and she slows her pace. 

_Isn’t as cruel as he could be._  
The cruelest thing she could think of is to kill her. No, that’s not right she thinks; she would gladly take death before she would fall to the hands of some of the men in the markets. The stories – whether true or rumor, she doesn’t know and doesn’t care to find out – are horrific enough. She bites her lip. 

He hasn’t done either. 

_He could’ve let you die. But instead he scoops you up, puts you into bed himself._

She tries to remember arms, a chest, maybe the feeling of being weightless. She remembers the cool of his armor as he caught her in the garden, but that’s about it. Nothing recently, nothing from over the past few days. 

She runs her hand along the wall, feeling the trim mindlessly beneath her fingers. She walks along, stopping when her slight nails catch along the wood and pull her back. 

A crack. 

Rey frowns, and looks back towards her hand where it had been trailing along the wall. She backs up a bit and looks towards her fingers, running the tips of them over and over the spot. Yes, that’s a crack. A cut in the wall, but when she moves her fingers to see it, she finds nothing. 

“What?” 

It comes out as barely a mumble as she runs her fingers along the trim again. Yes, there’s a deliberate cut. She moves her hand up the wall, feeling the surface. She still can’t see it, still can’t see the line that she’s most definitely feeling. 

“I’ve gone mad…” she mutters, frowning more deeply as she feels along the crack. 

Instinct tells her to push, and so she does. The wall refuses to budge on the right side of the crack, and so she tries the other. 

The wall moves with her, creaking loudly as she stumbles forward into darkness. When she rights herself again, she stands and looks back towards the hallway through the small, narrow doorway she’d just tripped through.

She grins to herself, looking down the long hallway the light from the doorway’s just barely illuminating. 

“Secret door,” she says, grin broadening as she feels the cool draft. Perhaps it leads outside, to the gardens? Perhaps out entirely, past the wall and across the bridge. It’s worth a shot, at least, she thinks as she looks down the hallway for any sign of the redheaded second hand. With no Hux in sight, she hurries back in and closes the door shut as quietly as she possibly can. It still squeaks loudly, and she winces at the sound before she hears it latch in place and feels it stop moving against her hands. 

As soon as the doors close, the sconces on the wall flicker to life. She jumps at the sudden illumination, staring. No matter how many times it happened in the dungeon when the knight came to see her, or while she was in the room’s, it still startles her every time.

The hall is short and narrow, ending in a set of stairs that spiral upwards. The iron handle is slim and doesn’t feel as though it would support her weight if she fell, but she climbs anyway. The stairs are short as well, ice cold beneath her bare feet. She wishes for shoes, slippers, her boots. 

Her heart clenches. Her boots. The ones that Poe paid good money for, probably giving a good percent of his wages to the maid for them. She bites her lip. Maybe she could ask Hux for them back, if he was willing. 

Later, she thinks. She’s vexed the man enough for one day. 

The climb is long, and her chest aches as she goes higher. Walking she’s used to, being on her feet for hours on end. But stairs are another thing entirely. She rarely walked up any, save for the nights where she could afford the cheapest room in the cheapest inn. She’s not used to this many, and certainly isn’t used to being as careful not to trip and tumble down them. 

The sconces flicker when she reaches the top. It can go further up, she can see the other set of stairs around the corner, but her breathing is labored already and she doesn’t feel like putting her aching, cold feet through another few flights. So she ducks into the alcove at the top of the set she just climbed, instead, and her hand finds warm wood. There’s no handle or knob that she can see. The first push does nothing, doesn’t even make the hinges creak. But she puts both hands on it and pushes harder, and it gives way slowly, not making a single sound as she steps into the room. 

It’s definitely warmer up here. Her feet find fur, and she looks down just as the lights in the room flicker awake. She looks up to see a chandelier, much simpler than the one in her room. 

She’s in another bedroom, she realizes, looking around. One nearly as vast as hers, but decorated much more simply. The fur rug beneath her feet is softer than anything she’s felt, and she hates to walk off of it in favor of exploring. This room has a vanity as well, with the same flourishes and polished mirror as hers but in darker wood. There’s no gold paint on it, either. She runs her fingers along the polished surface before she moves on. 

The fire’s lit, roaring and bright and warm. The bed looks as welcoming as hers, maybe a bit bigger and with less furs and blankets. The canopy above it isn’t quite as decorated, but she hums softly as she feels it between her fingertips. Thicker - softer, too. She looks towards the bed itself, at the sheets tangled beyond anything she’s seen, haphazard and nearly knotted. She looks away, across the room towards where the desk and chair stand in the middle. She lets go of the canopy and walks forward. 

The crunch of something beneath her foot startles her, and she backs up and looks down to see a sheet of parchment. Another look to the desk shows papers carelessly scattered across the dark wood surface of the desk, and she bends to pick up the piece she stepped on to set it with its siblings. 

She can’t read any of the words at all, but she recognizes the names of some of the lands the traders come from. She recognizes town names, as well, recognizes the characters from the signs she’d often see as she walked the countryside. The handwriting is thin and narrow and hasty, the words written with either very little care or no care at all for legibility. She snorts as she braces her hand on the back of the chair, and looks down as she feels the heavy fabric beneath her fingertips. 

It’s dark. And undoubtedly _his_ as she feels it. Warmth still lingers as she touches it, stroking the thick cloak. 

This is the knight’s room, of that she’s sure. Between the warmth, the scattered papers and the general feeling of _him_ , she’s certain she’s somewhere she’s not supposed to be.

She turns towards the door, intent on yanking it open and rushing back down the stairs as fast as possible, but movement catches her eye and she looks back towards an archway covered in curtains. They billow next to the window nearby, and at first glance she might say it was a bath room, like the one next to hers. But no, she can see that the bath room’s next to it, and she frowns as she walks forward to pull the curtains aside. 

The small bend is illuminated by a little window, and when she glances out she can’t see down. The storm is still ravaging the coast, rain and mist covering the rocks from her view. It’s cooler, here, and she nearly turns to leave and return to the warm room, but she can see another set of stairs around the bend, and walks forward instead. 

It’s not nearly as long a climb as last time, only a dozen steps or so. There’s a door at the top, and she pushes, expecting it to be locked shut like many of the doors she’d encountered earlier. To her surprise, it creaks open, and she steps into a small, round room. 

The sconces flare to life just as they had before, and Rey winces as the light reflects brightly off of something on a table in the center of the room. It’s cold, now, almost as if she were outside without a cloak. She crosses her arms to warm herself as she walks forward to examine the gleaming sword on the table. 

She knows the legends, the tales of the royal family. Of the former King and his wife, too soon yanked from the world just after childbirth. It’s something that they taught children; she had no one to teach her, but she learned it from word of mouth and overhearing other mothers tell their little darlings. She recognizes the sword immediately, the metal bent at the tip from the King’s anguished outburst. They said it could never be bent back, not even by the best blacksmiths. Logic tells her that they never tried, but over the course of the past few days thinking logically has proven fruitless. 

Behind the blade, she can see armor. Black, like the knight’s, and reflecting the warmth of the firelight spectacularly. The helmet is slightly bigger than the knight’s, and she recognizes it from the mural on the castle wall that has faded with time but still bears the royal resemblance. The king’s armor. Well, the former king’s. 

The glass in front of it is polished spectacularly, and she wonders if Hux had anything to do with it, or if it’s the magic that lights the sconces and keeps her still.

She steps towards it, standing in front of the suit of armor. It’s polished, too, gleaming brightly, and she doesn’t want to touch it, exactly, but she wants a closer look. Rey’s about to take another step, stone floors ice cold on her bare feet, when the door slams shut behind her with a loud bang. 

She goes to whirl around, but the sconces are extinguished with a gust of wind. The lack of windows means total darkness, and she’s about to cry out for Hux – someone – anyone – when there’s a hand over her mouth. 

Heat.

_Him._

“Be still.” 

He’s not wearing his helmet. She can hear his voice, deep and gruff behind her. She reaches up to claw at his hand, nails digging into the back of it, but he doesn’t move. She tries to buck forward out of his grasp, but his arm wraps itself around her waist and holds her securely to him. He’s not wearing his armor, either. She can feel the heat, the firm muscle of his chest as he keeps her close.

The palm slides from her mouth to her neck, bare skin to bare skin. She can feel his hand spread, his fingers splayed across her collarbone as his forefinger and thumb press against her throat. His touch is hot, almost unbearably so, and she gasps as he presses down just enough to make breathing the slightest bit more difficult. 

“How did you get up here?” 

“The door,” she tries, sound choked. He sounds choked, as well. 

“What door?” It’s growled roughly, the question bouncing around the empty room. His hand tightens. Her heart feels like a rabbit foot in her chest, her pulse roaring in her ears as she grabs his wrist, trying to pull his hand away. He doesn’t budge, instead tightening the arm around her waist. 

“In the hallway,” she says quickly. “The secret one, along the wall.” It comes out in a rush, her tongue stumbling over syllables. 

He inhales sharply, the sound much too loud in the quiet that follows her confession. She clenches her eyes shut as his hand tightens. Her lungs start to ache, her heartbeat feeling heavy. His forefinger and middle finger slip up towards her pulse, and she tries in vain to calm it as he feels it.

“… you’re afraid.”

It's a whisper, accompanied by a hot breath that ghosts against her ear, and sends a shiver down her spine. His hand is hot against her throat, and it makes her heart throb painfully.

"Yes," she breathes, the simple syllable almost too much. She's met with silence, his open palm still flush to her throat, pressing enough that the pressure forces her to swallow thickly, eyes stinging with tears. "Please-“

"Why did you come here?" Whatever trace of softness might've once lingered are gone, and his voice no longer tickles her ear.

"I'm sorry," it's an immediate response, a broken sob as she tries to breathe around his hand. It's not enough to completely choke her, but enough to fuel her panicking heart.

"Why did you come here?" He presses again, and she claws at his arm, trying to break free. 

His grip loosens enough for her to shove, hot tears prickling her eyes as she barrels to the door, wrenching it open as he growls behind her. The cold air of the stairway is a relief after the oppressing heat of him, and she tears down the stairs as fast as she can. She can hear the slam of the door, the sound of footsteps after her. She doesn’t dare look back as she rushes into his room. 

She can see the bare outline of door she entered through and sprints towards it, yanking at the handle. It doesn’t budge, but she can hear his heavy footsteps as he descends the stairs. A quick look back shows that he’s redonned the helmet. 

She tries the handle again, pounds at the wood of the door. She can feel the hot tears running down her cheeks as she slams her entire weight at it with her shoulder, and then she can feel heat of him behind her again. She freezes as a large hand cups the side of her face, and at once her body feels limp. She doesn’t pass out, not quite, but her vision swims and her pulse starts to slow again as she falls. 

He’s there to catch her. She slumps against his chest like those straw dolls she sees at the market, limp and lifeless. He scoops her up with ease, and she finds herself fully aware, unlike last time, as he cradles her. It’s gentle, almost, and she can feel the heat of his bare hands on her arm and thigh through the shift.

He takes a different door out of his rooms, one to the left. The sconces in the dark hallway light up as he walks through and down a stairway, and she tries to look up his helmet, tries to see him. She fails, catching a glimpse of pale skin but that’s all as he walks out into one of the main hallways. She recognizes this one, now; it’s near the library. He doesn’t let her go as he carries her back down to her room. The door opens without a touch; she watches the handle turn and bow, and then the door’s being pushed open. 

The windows rattle with the storm outside, and the room is cool now, the fire having died a bit since she left to explore. It starts back up with a roar and a crackle, the room warming almost immediately. 

Her heartbeat hasn’t calmed, her fear of him hasn’t lessened despite the way he’s holding her close. He sets her down carefully on the bed, and at once she regains feeling, moving her fingers and her bare toes as everything else starts to work again. 

The knight doesn’t move from her bedside as she tries to lift her leg a bit, watching as she bends her knees. She moves to sit up, and he turns. He’s dressed simply, she notices, the armor missing and instead replaced with a simple tunic, leather doublet and pants. 

He walks through the door and slams it so hard behind him that a few of the bottles on the vanity tip over. She can hear the finite sound of the lock sliding home, and stares at the closed door as she realizes that, with his departure, the room feels ice cold.


	9. home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mentions of slight asphyxiation (as happened in the last chapter)

“Hux.” 

If he had a gold coin for every time his name has been said in contempt like it just was, he would have enough to build a castle using the coins as the bricks themselves. The redheaded man says nothing as he continues chopping carrots, sweeping the green ends into a bin by his feet. 

“Hux!” 

“What is it now, Ren?” Oh, how foolish he was to think he could have but a half an hour alone. He turns and sees the man is stark pale. Well, that wasn’t what he was expecting. Red with rage, maybe, or his cheeks flushed in embarrassment. But not pale. “What happened?” 

“Can you explain to me,” the knight says, for once keeping his voice even. “How she got into the armory?” 

“Armory? The one by the gardens?” Hux asks, frowning. “I alone have the key, she-“

“No, Hux, the tower. She got into the tower. How in the hell did she get into the tower?!” 

“How am I to know, I can’t even get in there myself,” Hux scoffs. “You-“

“Have the only key, I’m well aware!” It’s a snarl. He’s clutching the metal of his helmet so tightly that Hux wouldn’t be surprised if he’d dented the damn thing. “But how did she get in?” 

“You are preaching to the choir, Ren. I know nothing. I sent her back on her way from the library –“

“The library? She’s been out?!” 

The redhead sighs heavily as he sets his knife down and whirls around to level the knight with a glare. “The guards are under my strict orders to shoot if they see movement, Ren. The storm is getting worse, and she would be a fool to try to leave now. She is not going anywhere until this storm has passed. If you wish to be a fool as well and lock her in her room so that she can climb from the window and fall to her death, then be a fool. But the girl was merely curious, and I won’t have you throwing a fit for it.” 

He turns right back around, and continues chopping the carrots a bit more vigorously. “I don’t know how she got into the armory. If you ask again, this knife will be cutting more than carrots.” 

It’s an empty threat. He knows full well the other man could overpower him, but it’s a threat all the same, and all he hears is an irritated sort of growl. 

“She asked who you were.” 

There’s a heartbeat of silence, of hesitation. “… and?” the knight demands.

“If you think I told her, you’re an idiot. She knows you’re a man, and that’s all.” 

He hears a scoff behind him. “What did she think I was?” 

“I don’t know. A beast, a troll. Some sort of monster, perhaps.” 

Silence follows his words, and he barely hears the man’s heavy footsteps against the floor before the door is slamming shut behind the him. Hux turns to see that the knots of garlic hanging by it are swaying violently, and he listens to the knight’s long, stomping strides as he storms away before the manservant’s left with the quiet crackle of the fire and the bubbling of the stew. 

“… good riddance.” 

-

It seems like hours. Hours upon hours she sits, her knees to her chest and her arms wrapped around them as she watches the door and waits for the inevitable. The room feels colder than it ever has, even with the fire roaring and the windows closed against the storm’s wind. 

_Don’t wail to me if he slams you back into that cell._

Rey closes her eyes and winces at the idea of being back in that cold stone prison. The shift she’s wearing would do nothing to shield her from the chill, and if he was cruel before, there is a good possibility he’ll be even crueler, now. She tread where she wasn’t supposed to, of that she’s sure. And given that she’d tread where she wasn’t supposed to last time, too…

The sudden sound of the door handle twisting startles her, and Rey scrambles backwards, her back pressed to the carved, gilded mahogany of the headboard as her heartbeat quickens. “I’m sorry!” 

It’s a shout, broken and choked in her fear, but she quickly sees the slim frame and orange hair and sags. She presses her hand to her forehead, skittering heart calming once more. It’s not him. It’s not him. Her breath is shaky, and she can nearly feel the hot prick of tears behind her eyes.

Brave though she may pretend to be, the fear that has come now is too much to put a mask over.

“He’s not angry.” 

Rey looks up, and finds Hux standing by the table, unloading the contents of the cart onto the wood. A stew, smelling richly of spices, and another loaf of bread with butter. 

She stands, shivering as he walks over to put another log on the fire. “He’s not?” she asks, hesitant as she watches the manservant.

“Considering you aren’t curled up on a stone floor behind bars, then no, I’d say he’s not,” Hux explains. It’s not exactly comforting, but he has a point. She wraps her arms around herself as she watches him, and he pulls out her chair for her to sit. 

“Thank you.” It’s a soft thing, and she’s not entirely sure what she’s thanking him for. Perhaps the food and the assistance with the chair, or for reassuring her that she’s not going to die tonight. 

There’s no snark, this time. No banter between them as she eats. Despite his slight reassurance, her fear doesn’t abate, and her pulse doesn’t slow. She eats as much as she can with her stomach in knots, and watches as he puts the dishes back onto the gilded cart with care. 

“Do you have need for anything else?” he asks, once he reaches for the now empty tea pot. 

“I need to go home.” 

“I was under the impression that you didn’t have one.” 

Her gaze shoots up to find him still packing up the leftover food, taking the bread plate from her side. “That’s not-“

“That’s not true?” he asks, looking up at her as he sets the plate on the cart. “You didn’t deny it when I accused you of bathing in a creek. You suggested that you sleep in inns.” His tone is mocking, and she feels even colder than before as he picks up the butter plate. 

“A home is a feeling, it doesn’t have to be a place,” she snaps back. 

“Then what is home to you?” he asks, his face entirely blank as he waits for her response. 

She opens her mouth, and finds that Poe’s name catches behind her teeth. She’s left gaping before she closes her lips and straightens. “… a man,” she replies simply. “For me, home is a man. My dear friend, a member of the royal guard.” 

“Your home is your lover,” Hux clarifies, and immediately she feels her cheeks heat. 

“He’s not…” she starts, trailing off after a moment because what is Poe? Her friend, to be sure, but after him kissing her… 

Does he want to be lovers? Does she want to be his? She wants to return to him, certainly. That's the first step.

Rey bites her lip. “Maybe,” she admits after a moment. 

Though it’s slight, she can see the smallest quirk of his lips as he straightens, the table now cleared. “If you have need for anything,” he says as he grips the handlebar of the cart. “I do suggest waiting until morning, if only for my sanity.” His tone is slightly lighter than before, and she snorts as he nods. It’s as much of a ‘good night’ as she’s going to get, she knows, and so she watches him leave. 

Unlike the knight, he doesn’t lock the door. She’s grateful for it, but she also knows she won’t be stepping outside of the room that night. The wind is still howling and she can still hear the rain against the glass of the window. 

No. She won’t take her chances tonight. 

-

It wasn’t his intention to wake Finn up. But with the clouds covering the moon and stars, the storm spreading out its tendrils towards the city, it’s difficult to see. The light he would usually rely on is no longer, and he ends up stumbling in pitch black, tripping over his own armor and cursing as he stubs his toe.

“Poe?” Finn’s voice is groggy, and Poe turns to just see the man’s silhouette as he sits up on the wooden cot. “What’re you-“

“Sh!” Poe lunges forward, nearly tripping over his armor again in an effort to cover his friend’s mouth. He can see Finn’s eyes going wide, the man more awake now as he pries Poe’s hand from his lips. “I’m going after Rey,” he explains quickly, barely a hiss of a whisper.

The look Finn gives him is one of fond exasperation. “It’s not yet been a fortnight, Poe, she’s fine. She can handle herself, you know how she is in the streets. Knocked me flat on my ass the first day I met her, remember?” His smile is bright with the memory, though Poe remembers their fight clear as day and it hadn’t exactly been something to be happy about. His friend had had bruises for the next week because of their girl.

“I know, she punched me in the jaw,” Poe mutters, remembering her left hook well. “But I can’t shake the feeling that she isn’t fine,” he insists as he grabs the water canteen from the hook by the door and stuffs it in the pack he found. “I need to go out and find her.”

“Poe, that’s not – oh, for the love of – “

Poe startles as Finn makes an even bigger crash than he had, tripping over his breastplate and cursing a blue streak. Before he can see clearly, there’s a warm hand on his shoulder, curling up and around to the nape of his neck.

“Let me go. You’re up for the position of captain, you know that,” Finn mutters. “You know how many men and women wish to be captain.” 

“I know,” he admits forlornly, trying to find his friend’s gaze in the dark. He’s somewhat glad he woke the man up. The hand on his neck is a comfort, and the feeling of touch is something he desires more often than he doesn’t. He smiles as he reaches his own hand up to Finn’s neck, grasping as well, feeling the soft, short curls against his fingers. “But with luck, I’ll return with her, and the Queen will understand why I left. She does prefer me.”

There’s a laugh, bright and happy, and then – “You’re an idiot, Poe Dameron,” Finn’s voice fond with exasperation. 

He’s given little notice, the dark assisting in his friend’s cause as all of a sudden plush lips are pressed against his. He nearly stumbles back in shock, Finn’s hand warm on the back of his neck as it slips up into his hair, but then he can see nothing as his eyes slip closed and he leans into it. It’s a little clumsy, both of them not entirely awake, and Poe’s not sure whether Finn’s kissed anyone before. But it’s sweet, as sweet as the one he’d shared with Rey, and then with a nip to his lower lip it becomes just the slightest bit hungrier. 

Oh, _Finn…_

He pulls back briefly, breathing harsh before he surges forward again, the kiss harder this time. Finn kisses back in kind, and Poe moans against the man’s lips before he’s pulling back to speak. 

“If I’d known…” he says, trailing off before he laughs. “We could’ve done that a lot earlier.” 

“Just come back, you damn fool,” Finn replies, and even in the darkness Poe can see his friend’s smile. “With her.”

“So that we can do that again?” Poe teases, smirking. 

“So we can do that again,” Finn confirms, yanking him into another kiss even sloppier than the second. Poe has to keep his moan quiet, the walls thick but door thin, and his hand grasps the thin wool of the man’s sleep shirt before he’s pulling back. 

“I really have to go.” It’s almost a whine. Damn him. Damn this beautiful man for giving him a reason to stay – his lips, his touch, his hands, and his smile against Poe’s. 

“Then go, and bring her back, and try not to die while doing it,” Finn teases, and Poe grins, stealing one more chaste kiss before he grabs the pack and starts for the door. 

“You forgot your sword, Dameron.”

-

She wakes to heat. Overwhelming and sudden, and the feeling of being choked once more. 

Air has never tasted so sweet as Rey gasps, sitting up in the dark room and throwing off the blankets to feel the chill. The fire’s nearly gone out, the room almost cold, but still she feels almost feverish as she gasps for breath, the feeling of him behind her too real to be entirely pleasant. 

Or, perhaps, _too_ pleasant. 

She can still feel the heat of the knight’s fingers against her throat, and she places her fingers where his were. It’s a poor imitation, his fingers so much larger and so much hotter, but it makes her throat close up a little all the same, and her heart beat even faster. 

“Did he hurt you?” 

The question is sudden, and Rey’s gaze darts to where Hux is near the fire. He must’ve entered while she was asleep to tend the fire, and she watches as he feeds the flames before straightening again, dressed in what she thinks might be sleep clothes. Dark as his normal uniform, but softer-looking, a robe over his sleep shirt and pants. His hair isn’t quite so coiffed, and she relaxes as he sets the poker aside and drags the screen back over the flames. 

Remembering his question, she shakes her head, though her hand continues to rub at the skin of her throat. She looks down again, towards her lap. She’s cold, now that she’d thrown the blankets nearly completely off of the bed.

“Did he frighten you?” 

That question surprises her the most, and her head snaps up once more as Hux walks forward, picking up the tangled mess of blankets she’d tossed off in her panic. 

“Yes,” she admits. There’s a weakness in it as she watches him pull the blankets apart from their knot. 

Yes. Yes, she was frightened. She was afraid. The knight had felt it himself, his fingers against her pulse in a way that was almost intimate, her flesh hot and covered in goose bumps. 

“He’s afraid of you.” 

Her heart lurches into her throat. It’s said so simply, like he would tell her that the tart she had for dessert had apples in it or that the fire needed another log. “What do you mean, he’s afraid of me?” Rey asks softly as Hux sets the sheet back on the bed, pulling it up and over her legs. She grabs at the silk and holds it tight, no doubt wrinkling it beyond what’s proper. “The man rushed in like a beast, extinguished all the candles and knocked the wind out of me, and then grabbed me and put his hand around my throat! And he is afraid of me?”

The idea’s absurd, and she watches Hux with wide eyes as he continues to untangle her mess. 

“He cares for you,” the man says simply, and she gawks at him, watching as the fire catches on his cheekbones and pale skin, the orange tone practically matching his hair. 

“Cares for me?” she asks in disbelief. “He’s … he’s a monster. How the hell-“

“Think, girl,” Hux says, eyes never leaving the blankets. “Why would he take you from the cell and put you to bed himself? Why would he give me orders to take care of you, to feed you and bathe you and clothe you and keep you warm? Why would he ask me every time I return from bringing you food if you ate it all, biting for information like a hound on the streets?” 

His voice is harsher, now, and she leans back against the headboard, wishing for all the world that she could become wood herself. “Why would he carry you back? Why would he set you in this room again when you quite clearly intruded on something so intimate that even I haven't seen, and am forbidden to find?” 

His green eyes find hers, hard and colder than the knight’s have ever been. “How the hell, you ask. How the hell does he care for some beggar rat who has done nothing but snoop and steal and snap at him. If I knew the answer, I would tell you, but I don’t. All I know is that he cares enough for you to not only keep you alive, but spoil you. I suggest you think on it, and if the idea of being cherished by a monster is too horrifying to even consider, then the window is unlatched.”

There’s the rustle of the blankets as he spreads them across the bed and across her legs, tugging them up to cover her, but he says nothing more. Once he deems his job finished, she watches his prim form go, the door slamming shut behind him as her skin warms again with the layers of wool, velvet, fur and silk back over her. 

Rey waits, her skin cold and heart slowing its frantic pace as she stares at the golden paneling, as if he would come back and explain when he already told her he had no answers. 

_Cared for. Cherished._

The words are unfamiliar. She takes care of herself, always has. And why anyone would cherish her, she has no idea. Why this monster of a man with his hot hands and even hotter head would even so much as look at her twice is a mystery beyond her. 

“Cherished,” she mutters to the empty room, her cheeks flushing as she destroys his hard work and throws the covers off to rest her feet on the stone floor. They take her to the window, where the rain has lightened only slightly. The chill from outside can be felt even a few feet away, but she continues to look out at the cliffs below. “So is this being cherished? Trapped and terrified?” 

She snorts, shaking her head as though to rid herself of the idea, but it stays stuck like the lingering smell of ale on her clothes after leaving the tavern.

_Cherished._

Perhaps Hux is wrong. This isn’t being cherished. This isn’t being cared for. This is … obsession, perhaps. 

_Lust. Want._

She scoffs at the idea. 

He’d have to be desperate to imagine her. She’s seen the girls in the taverns, with their breasts pushed up and their cheeks rosy and hair sleek. Their hips emphasized by their gathered skirts and belts, their lips plump and smirks sultry. She has none of these things. Her breasts are meager at best, and she’s sure if she tried she would be able to pin them as flat as a board with a length of cloth. Her cheeks are covered in freckles from the sun, the result of sleeping outside and waking to the morning rays in her eyes. She has no hips for childbearing or grabbing, no meat on her bones at all. Strong she may be, a beauty she is not. A man must be truly deprived, she thinks, to want for her. 

But Poe … 

She bites at her lower lip, hearing the waves crash below and trying to find them in the darkness that is the storm. Poe wanted her. Poe _wants_ her. He kissed her. Or maybe it was simply a good luck kiss? He could do so much better. He’s handsome, and a member of the guard. He could have any pretty girl he wanted. So could Finn. All it would take would be a trip down to one of the taverns, a few smiles and a few pretty words and a wink or two and they’d be wed. 

But Poe is kind. She knows Poe, Poe's helped her get on her feet more times to count. Poe is ... Poe. 

The knight is another man entirely. Why the hell should he want her? He knows nothing of her. Truly, he must be daft... or desperate. Desperate for affection, for a touch. For a female form besides the girls in the books or in the paintings. Hell, even the girl in yellow on the wall with her small painted face and womanly figure is a better sight than she is.

Why would he want to cherish her, of all people?

She can’t deny that whatever he feels for her has worked in her favor. She’s been fed and clothed and bathed and given a beautiful room, and he hasn’t hurt her. Her hand moves to her throat again, fingers spreading across her skin. 

Frighten? Yes. Hurt? No. He’s been … gentle. 

Her head pulses, mind reeling and body having gotten up too fast from the soft bed. She winces as she walks back and slips beneath the covers again, curling beneath them and closing her eyes. The headache doesn’t abate, not with the steady sound of the rain on the windows, but she’s calmer now, and it’s enough to send her back to sleep with the feeling of hot hands on her skin. 

-

“She has someone.” 

Hux sets the teapot down, staring at the caramel-colored tea in the porcelain cup. He keeps his hand on the handle of the pot, knowing full well that he might have a mess on his hands in a matter of seconds. 

The tantrum doesn’t come. The knight merely dumps a few lumps of sugar into the cup and stirs, the only sound the spoon clinking against the sides. A drop of cream a moment later, but still no outburst. The manservant waits with baited breath for the inevitable destruction, but it never comes. 

He's almost disappointed. “A member of the royal guard,” Hux clarifies, watching. 

There’s still no response from the hulking man before him, and he waits another few heartbeats before he nods and makes his way back towards the library door. “I’ll come back when you’re finished,” he says, of the tea, scones, and butter he’d just left by the man’s side. 

Only silence follows as he steps outside and closes the door behind him. He’s damn lucky he has long legs and equally long strides, because not three breaths later there’s a roar, and the sound of metal hitting wood. The left half of the library’s double doors slams open, and the knight’s helmet rolls across the stone floor of the hall. Hux turns and watches as it rolls to a stop just outside the threshold, and he stares at it in all of its dented, scratched glory for a moment before he shakes his head. “Not today,” he mutters, as he continues on his way. 

There’s a prick of smug satisfaction when he hears stomping footsteps, and he smirks when he hears the slam of the library door echo down the hall.


	10. the library.

It takes three days for the storm to pass. By the third, she can finally see the cliffs the castle was built upon. They’re craggy things, but beautiful in their own way, she supposes. She can see where the sky meets the sea, the grey-blue water seemingly endless as she opens the window to damp, salty air. The breeze is chilly against her cheeks, but the fresh air is more wonderful than she could’ve ever dreamed. She ends up spending a good few hours simply leaning on the windowsill, watching the waves beat against the rocks below and listening to the harsh cries of the gulls. The setting sun casts the water gold, and she’s breathless at the colors splashed across the sky before she can see the stars for the first time since she entered the castle.

Never in her lifetime did she think she would see the seaside, and yet here she is. 

“The storm’s passed,” Rey says the next morning as soon as she hears the door open, eager to use her voice and eager for the company of the manservant, prissy and irritable though he may be. She hasn’t dared step outside her room since her last adventure, but it’s getting boring in the vast bedroom. 

She hasn’t gotten up since breakfast, lingering in bed and listening to the caws of the seabirds and the crashing of the sea below. Somehow she feels guilty at the indulgence. To sleep in was impossible when she had to leave the inns in the morning by a certain time to avoid getting yelled at, and sleeping for long periods of time on damp straw wasn’t exactly a fantastic feeling. To spend hours curled up beneath warm covers, watching as the gulls fly by? It’s strange, but she doesn’t want to leave if only because she’s the most comfortable she’s ever been. 

“So it has,” Hux says simply as he brings in lunch. It’s a modest meal, bread and meat and cheese and some apple slices with honey. Still much better than anything she would have had back in the city. “It’s moved inland. There is snow with it, now.”

Rey sits up, still in the nightgown that’s too short for her, the thin fabric wrinkled from her staying in one position beneath the covers for so long. No doubt if she were to take it off, she would find the imprints of said wrinkles in her pale skin. “The last time it snowed in the city, I became ill,” she recalls. 

“It does seem to be one of your hobbies,” Hux retorts, and she allows herself a smirk as she climbs from the bed and walks to the cart of food, stealing an apple slice. “Heathen,” he says simply as she takes a bite, the fruit breaking with a loud ‘crunch’.

“At least I don’t act like I haven’t relieved myself in a week,” she mumbles around the sweet, crisp fruit, and the look he gives her is positively withering. 

“If you do decide to wander about the castle, I would suggest not getting caught this time,” he exclaims as he pours a cup of tea for her. 

“I wasn’t exactly planning on being caught the first time,” Rey admits, taking another bite of her apple, her annoyed tone accentuated by the harsh ‘crunch’ of her bite. 

“That being said,” Hux says, voice a low drawl. “Go where you please, but do try not to get caught. For my sake. He’s a nuisance when things don’t go his way.” 

“Is he? I hadn’t realized,” she replies sarcastically, just to be her own sort of nuisance. 

The look Rey gets makes her smirk, and with that, he leaves her with a promise to collect the dishes once she’s finished. He’s gone before she can even offer a ‘thank you’. 

It’s not permission, no, but it was at least a suggestion. Eager to leave the room and explore, she eats quickly, tasting maybe half of it. It’s perhaps not the most delicate way to eat, but then again she’s hardly a delicate person. Honey still lingers on her fingers as she makes her way out of the bedroom, one of the embroidered blankets from the bed wrapped around her shoulders to shield her from the seemingly permanent chill that lingers inside the castle. 

It’s easy to find the library again, now that she knows where it is. Lacking in literacy though she may be, perhaps there are books she can entertain herself with, like the ones with the beautiful pictures she saw sometimes in the bookstore window. 

When she was little, she marveled at them. She would spend hours lingering in front of the glass window, the kind man inside letting her gaze but never letting her in, at least not when she was that small. She doesn’t blame him; she had sticky fingers covered in dirt and dust from scrambling around the streets, and no doubt just one of these books could pay her way to a modest house in the countryside, complete with a few cattle. 

As she grew, she questioned the senselessness of the artisans, eyes scanning the few letters and words she knows for some sort of method to their madness. Why would one put gold on pages? It seemed like a waste of precious metal to her, but they were always breathtakingly pretty, with swirling vines and intricate knots and illustrations of beasts and man alike. As useless as they are, she cannot deny beauty.

It always seems like the most beautiful things are the most useless. Or, at least, useless until they are sold for food.

With the new sunshine pouring through the windows, she can see the grand door of the library, the careful carving of the wood. It creaks as she walks inside, and she greedily breathes in the smell of leather and paper. She can feel the warmth of the room as soon as she steps inside, and sighs as she walks along the shelves. There is no plate of cookies this time, no blanket tossed carelessly aside or a helmet abandoned. She will not be caught today, or so she hopes. 

The fur rug is plush beneath her bare feet as she crosses to one of the shelves, sure the golden letters upon the wood holds some meaning to the contents of the books it holds. But she has no idea what the beautiful, curving letters say, and so she just reaches upwards. Curious and calloused fingers pull a book from one of the shelves, the tomes so flush with each other that she finds the action difficult. Rey opens it and flips through, trying to find something that will hold her attention, but it’s in a language she doesn’t recognize. She knows some of the letters, but the accents and swirls above them she doesn’t remember ever seeing on signs in the market, so she huffs and puts it back where it belongs before walking along. 

There are ladders going to the upper floors, she notices. She can see a plethora of railed balconies with chairs and tables, a desk or two with quills and jars of ink. The vast room puts the city’s tiny bookstore to shame, and as she walks through it just keeps on getting bigger. There are propped-open doors to other rooms also filled with books, and her wonder at the sheer amount of tomes increases with every step she takes. 

So few letters, and they created so much?

She feels almost bad putting her bare feet upon one of the polished wooden ladders, golden swirls and carvings curling up the sides of it. With the ease of one who climbs walls and trees daily, she clambers to the top, looking down at the floor below and grinning at the height. The ladder is as tall as the trees she used to climb when she was younger, though the fruit at the top is books of leather and parchment and not too-tart, too-hard apples. 

With some difficulty, Rey pulls three books, balancing on the top of the ladder and bracing her weight on the shelf before her as she opens one of them on her hip. No, no pictures, and an even stranger language with even stranger symbols. A beautiful language, swirling even more than the one she knows and looking almost like some sort of fae language, but one that’s useless to her. She huffs and sets it back, opening the other. The same, it seems, and it’s with another huff of frustration that she pulls the ladder over a bit more, using the shelves as leverage. 

She finds the same language, and continues pushing her way along the wall until she decides that this entire section is made of the same curling shapes, and so she huffs and jumps to one of the balconies, climbing over the railing and walking into one of the rooms off of the main library. 

There is something different here. There is leather and paper, yes, but there is also the smell of … of paint. She knows the smell somewhat, an artist in the square doing quick drawings for children for a copper, little sketches on woodchips. She had one a long time ago of a flower, the pigments fading over time and the wood chip used for fire fuel. She was sad to see it go, tears streaming down her cheeks, but she knows she would have been sadder to see one of her toes go.

She lingers in the doorway, seeing a wooden easel with bits of charcoal lined up to use. Hux must clean this room as he does any other, setting everything just right and making sure everything is in its place. Still, the room feels like it was used often. Loved, almost. She feels like she’s stepping into a sanctuary, though not as forbidding as the tower had been. This room welcomes her with open arms, and her gaze finds the smaller, more humble bookshelf to the left. She sets the blanket on one of the chaises, walking to the shelf and trailing her fingers along the smooth wood.

The books on this shelf are more worn, she can see that immediately. The leather of the spines is cracked, no title upon them as the others had, whether embossed or painted on. It’s smooth and soft, like the gloves she wore so long ago until they practically fell from her hands. She strokes the butter-smooth cover with roughened fingers, trying to feel for the letters that are on the front of the rest of them, looking for any indication of a subject or language. She finds nothing, and frowns as she cracks it open. 

The paper is thicker, sturdier. And it makes sense that it would be, because she can see the paint on the pages as she opens it. The drawings are not so excellent as the ones in the bookstore window, but they are more realistic. She makes a soft sound of appreciation as she trails her fingers across a drawing of green leaves, handwriting in the margins. She can’t read the words, she knows, but she doubts she’d even be able to read the letters. It’s scrawling, almost looping. An artist’s handwriting, no doubt. 

The next page shows a bird of yellow, bright as sunshine and buttercups. She can feel the thickness of the paint, even beneath her calloused fingertips. She can feel when it stops, the slight difference in the height of the paint and the paper. 

Someone’s journal, she supposes. A scholar of nature, she determines as she flips the page and finds a branch on the next. Or perhaps not, she thinks as she sees the small drawing of the woman sitting on the next page. 

Her dress is the same color of the bird, but there are strokes of red above it. Decoration, she realizes, the embroidery of the gown. Whoever painted it had an eye for detail. She can see the gold in the embroidery, small flecks of it, applied painstakingly with a skilled hand. 

Rey smiles as she reaches up to take another, holding both of them to her chest. These she can admire, these she can enjoy. This room looks like it hasn’t been used in years, surely the Knight won’t notice that they’re gone. Hux might, but if he’s going to be an arse about it she’ll let him take them back.   
When she’s finished, of course. 

She walks back out to the balcony and gets back on the ladder, this route faster than the winding staircase around the other side of the library. She holds the books as tightly as she can as she looks up at the shelves, lingering on one of the top rungs as she tries to see if there is anything else she wants to explore-

“What are you doing in here?” 

“Ach!” 

It’s a startled yelp as she loses her balance, her idea of holding onto the books instead of the ladder her downfall – quite literally. An attempted grab at the shelves is in vain, because her hand slips on the polished wood. There is nothing to grab onto except for the ladder, and even that teeters, so Rey lets go entirely and hopes that there is at least a carpet beneath her when she hits the floor. 

She shouldn’t be surprised when she doesn’t hit it. She winces as she hits something hard, but it’s not the floor, and she feels the breath knocked out of her as she stares up into the polished and somewhat dented helm of the knight. She can feel the heat of his chest immediately, his arms beneath her back and her knees. Of course he caught her.

“Why do you insist upon catching me?” she demands, forgetting herself, her fear, and her position in this castle for half a moment. His hand is hot on her thigh through the thin nightgown, and she glares up into the slits that allow him to see her. 

“Why do you insist upon falling?” he retorts immediately, his voice echoing beneath the metal. He does have a point, she supposes, as she stares up at him in surprise that he actually bantered back. 

Like all the times he has held her, he treats her gently as he sets her down. She can feel soft wool beneath her feet, can see the books she was holding splayed out on the floor as he bends to pick one of them up. She opens her hand for it, but he doesn’t give it back. Of course he doesn’t. 

“What are you doing in here?” he asks, and where she had expecting his tone to be harsh, it’s not. There is a roughness to it, but there is no anger or irritation. 

“Hux said I could wander as I pleased, so long as I didn’t … “ Rey trails off, staring at her captor as Hux’s words play in her mind.

_Go where you please, but do try not to get caught._

“… get caught,” she finishes, and to her shock there is a scoff from beneath the helmet. 

“That doesn’t explain why you are in the library, or where you found these books,” he replies matter-of-factly, and while she thinks that it explains it rather well, she humors him. 

“I was looking for something to read.”

“Then perhaps something aside from a sketchbook would be preferable. Something with words, maybe,” the knight replies simply, offering her the book with a gloved hand. She takes it, noticing the size of his fingers and his palm. He’s a large man, that she knew, but the thick leather gloves make his hands seem almost inhuman in size. 

She can still feel his hand upon her neck, hot and heavy, but it no longer scares her. Instead, she can feel her pulse quicken, and she curses her own reaction to this monster of a man before her.

“It has words,” she protests, taking the book and holding it to her chest protectively.

He says nothing, instead turning. He bears no armor, not this time. Just a simple long-sleeved tunic, over a woven doublet, pants, and his cape. His entire garb is black, and she wonders how long he has gone without color, without brightness. The castle is dark even with the sunlight from the parted clouds, and it’s depressingly dim, and the sea below grey. The cliffs are no different. She wonders why anyone would surround themselves with such gloom and darkness. 

Why would anyone torture themselves like that? 

“Who is your favorite?” 

“Pardon?” she asks, his voice startling her as he walks along the shelves. 

“Author. Whose work do you read?” 

Pictures. She reads pictures. But she can’t very well tell him that, so she just says, “William.” A random name, sure, but a common one. Surely there is an author in here named William who can save her ass from looking like a fool. 

“Shakespeare?” he asks, his voice pitched high in question.

“Yes?” she replies. Unfortunately, her own voice is pitched as well. 

“You’re unsure?” 

There’s cold laughter in his voice, now, and she scowls at him, crossing her arms over her chest with the book in between. “What does the master of the castle recommend?” she asks, tone mocking. 

“I recommend learning to read, first.” 

Her scowl falls in disbelief that he’d seen through her that quickly, and suddenly embarrassed, she shifts her bare feet on the carpet as he turns and walks back to her. 

“I recommend doing as you’re told, and I recommend walking around in something more than a nightgown,” he replies, voice smoother than it’s been, but just as deep. 

“With all due respect, sir,” Rey replies with a narrowed gaze. Her own voice is sharp, her ‘sir’ mocking as she stares up into the unforgiving slits of the helmet. “You have not told me to do anything. You haven’t told me to stay in the room. You haven’t given me a single order. You tell me to do as I am told, but you have not told me anything. Forgive me if I misunderstood your orders, or lack thereof.” 

There is silence beneath the helmet. She stares up into the darkness, before there’s a slight hum from beneath it, echoing and metallic. 

“For a thief, you banter like a merchant,” he mutters as he turns and walks towards some of the distant shelves. 

“Perhaps because I have spent most of my life stealing from them, in the markets,” she explains before she can stop herself. Why did she just reveal that? Why is she so keen on telling her sad little tale to both this man and his ginger attendant? 

“You’ve also spent your life with male soldiers. Uncommon for a woman.” 

“I would much rather soldiers than drunken bastards,” Rey replies, following him as he makes his way into one of the other rooms. This one is smaller, and she nearly gasps as she notices one of the walls is entirely glass, curving into a half dome at the top. The frost restricts her view, but she can see the dark shapes of the cliffs, and the land beyond. Embroidered black cushions rest upon it, a nook to read in or perhaps nap in, and she’s eager to rush forward and look out at the sea below. Even with the frost over the glass, this is a much better view than the one from her room, and she grins as she watches the waves crash against the rocks. She can hear the soothing sound much better from here, and she turns to see him searching through a great mahogany desk behind her, rifling through drawers   
and emerging with a wax-sealed bottle of ink. 

“Why didn’t you ask Hux to get that for you?” she asks, wondering and a barb at the same time. 

She can feel his hardened stare, even without seeing it, and she climbs off of the nook where she’d been kneeling on the cushions. “Despite what you’ve been told, I can accomplish things on my own,” he tells her, voice just as hard as his stare. “I don’t need Hux to come and fetch a bottle of ink.” 

Rey watches as he rummages for a pen, coming up with a selection of quills bound with a black ribbon. She notices this room is much colder, and she glances to the window, the delicate glass no doubt contributing to the chill. Still, it’s beautiful, and she returns to the window to watch the waves crash against the small shore and the cliffs. 

His words of her spending her time with soldiers come back to her, and she frowns as she looks over at him, watching as he pulls a few quills from the bundle. “How did you know I spend my time with…?” she asks, trailing off before she realizes that she told Hux about Poe, and Hux must have told him. There’s a sick sense of satisfaction as she looks towards the knight, knowing that he … that he cares for, and cherishes her, but she has another. Or, at least, he thinks she has another. She’s not sure if she can call Poe hers, or if she even wants to. But it’s the insinuation, she supposes, as she watches him cross to a cabinet and open it to see scrolls upon scrolls of paper. “Hux.” 

“Hux,” the knight repeats, and she watches him as he pulls two down before her gaze returns to the sea below, the gulls flying above the white caps. “You’re going to freeze if you stay in here.” 

“I brought a blanket with me. It’s upstairs, I’ll fetch it in a moment,” Rey replies simply, and she wants to banter something about concern. About caring, about cherishing, but she’s already hearing his heavy footsteps, and by the time she turns her gaze back to the room, he’s already gone. 

He’s right. It is cold, but as she leaves the sketchbooks and goes to leave this room and climb upstairs to get the blanket she brought, she notices a dark blanket draped over the back of the chair by the desk. “Oh, good,” she mutters, walking over and reaching for it. 

Her hand finds the wool, and she stops at the warmth coming from the fabric. It’s sturdy, and she feels the soft, thick wool before she realizes that it is no blanket at all. It’s his cape, or his cloak, or whatever it is, left for her. 

She shivers as a draft flows through the room, the air still cold despite the sun beaming through winter’s pale grey clouds. She lingers for a moment, her hand on the cloak, before she lets go. 

Cherish her though he may, he was still cruel. 

She goes up and gets the blanket she’d brought instead. It doesn’t shield the chill from her skin as well as she would like, the cool air next to the glass still seeping through, but it’s comfortable enough, and she flips through well done sketches of fountains and roses and columns and statues, fingers brushing over the small words on the side of the page and wishing she knew what they truly meant. 

-

“He told me you were in here.” 

Her gaze snaps to the door, and she watches as Hux comes with a silver tray bearing a few sandwiches, what look to be cookies, and a pot of tea. Over his arm is a thicker blanket than the one she has wrapped around her now, and she sits up, finding herself smiling at the idea of food as she slips from the nook and walks to him. 

“Did he, now?” she asks. 

“No hand upon your throat this time, I trust?” Hux asks, raising one ginger eyebrow at her as he sets the tray down on one of the mahogany desks, the center of it intricately carved to show a map of the kingdoms and mountains, the lakes and rivers and oceans of their beautiful lands.

“No,” she says simply, recalling her and the knight’s strange interaction. Him catching her, asking her about her reading material, his amusement at her retort. He didn’t … he didn’t snap, though, or snarl, or degrade her. Instead, he led her here, and left his cloak. “No, not … not exactly,” she clarifies, frowning down at the plate of sugar-covered cookies, seeing jam and nuts and sweet things she saw in the window of the bakery but never treated herself to. 

“Not exactly?” Hux asks, but she decides to ignore him as she takes a sandwich from the tray and bites into the simple combination of smoked ham and sharp cheese and soft butter. 

She watches Hux as he starts to pour the tea, a floral blend with some spice that fills the chill in her chest as she takes a deep breath. “… how many years has he lived here?” she asks around her mouthful of sandwich, and she takes a bit of pleasure in the face of disgust Hux makes. 

“Six years,” he says matter-of-factly as he sets the pot down, delicate steam curling from the spout. 

Six years. Six years of cold and grey and black and misery. She frowns, looking out to the cliffs. “Does the sun ever shine? Do things ever grow here?” 

“In the spring and summer, it’s beautiful,” Hux says, his tone implying he thinks her an idiot. “The water is blue, and the grass returns.” 

“The gardens. Do they ever bloom?” she asks as she takes another sandwich, one in each hand as he scoops some honey up onto a teaspoon and starts to stir it into the tea. 

“No. All the plants are dead. The castle was abandoned before he came, and he put no effort into reviving it. Which is why there are so many things broken and dirty. I can’t clean it all,” Hux says. His tone is snappish, and Rey regrets asking as she pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Do you need anything else?” 

“No, thank you,” she offers quietly, watching as he turns on his heel and leaves the tray. 

He stops when he passes the desk, his eyes roaming over the dark cloak that the knight left. Rey waits for some snide remark, for some smirk over his shoulder, but he just takes the cloak and folds it over his forearm before leaving.

-

She looks through the sketchbooks for hours. After looking through the three she’d picked before, Rey goes up and gets more, clearing off one of the mahogany shelves and carrying them back down in the embroidered blanket like a pack. 

They’re beautiful things, more striking than the books in the window with the perfectly spaced designs and impeccable writing. These pages have words that are crossed out, and splotches of ink, and charcoal sketches that have been abandoned, the nose a little too big or eyes too far apart. 

They’re more human than the books in the window, and she can see the effort put into every sketch, every little paragraph written on the side.

The woman in yellow appears often. Rey’s learned to recognize the curl of her hair, the slant of her nose and the curve of her lips. Though she doesn’t appear in yellow often, Rey finds she can recognize her in blue and green and even white. She can recognize slender hands covered in delicate gold rings, the curve of the woman’s jaw, the slope of her shoulder. There’s a name next to the sketches, along with what she’s sure is a description of what the woman is doing, but she can’t form the sound in her head. She recognizes it, though, and if pressed she’s sure she could try and write it out. 

Padme. Pa-, like the beginning of path, she thinks, or pass. Or maybe like pay, like the ba- in bakery? Or like Pa, like her Pa and Ma…

Her Pa and Ma who never came back to the alleyway they called their home, with its hung blankets and the one spread on the dirt ground as a makeshift floor. Her Pa and Ma who promised they’d be back by nightfall with more apples than she could count, but as the sun set and the stars glittered, there was no sign of them. They didn’t answer when she called, when she got lost in the empty marketplace, all the stalls closed for the night. 

Rey sets the sketchbook aside so as not to ruin the pictures with the tears stinging her eyes, looking instead out towards the cliffs. The sun set a while ago, Hux coming in to light one of the candelabras nearest to her and the fire in the fireplace, but it’s not quite enough to see the sketches properly without straining her eyes.

So she sets the books aside, keeping them out of danger as she kneels up to unhook the latches on the windows. They swing open, and she looks out at the open view of the cliffs, the moonlight shining down on the waves and the small lighthouse in the distance, most likely part of a bigger port. 

It’s beautiful. Just like Ma told her it would be, all those years ago, the brunette woman having grown up by the seaside. The moonlight sparkling on the waves, the gentle lulling sound of the water against the rocks. She much prefers her mother’s version of the sound of the waves, soft lips making shushing sounds, but she can’t have that anymore, now can she?

The tears come, quick and relentless and just as salty as the sea below as she feels her heart lurch in her chest. 

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?!” 

It’s a roar, angry and loud enough to startle her into pitching forward. Her stomach drops as she stares down at the very far ground below, her hands grasping for the window frame but it’s too cold, burning her fingers with instinct telling her to let go. A gasp leaves her lips as she slips forward, the cold winter air hitting her air like pins through the thin nightgown. The cold clings to the tears on her cheeks, freezing them upon her skin as she scrambles for purchase on the sill, desperate for something to hold. The metal cuts into her palms, too painful to grasp, so she lets go with a cry. She’s going to fall. She’s going to-

Time seems to stop once more, but she knows only she has as she watches the waves crash against the cliffs below. Immediately there are hands upon her upper arms, pulling her up and out of danger. She’s yanked back into the castle, the warmth of the room and the knight’s hands on her arms soothing her cold skin as she gasps and tries to swallow the sobs of relief that come forth. She clutches at his shoulders as she turns into him, trying to focus on the fact that she’s not plummeting towards the sea.

He saved her. Again. 

“I’ll ask again – what the hell were you doing?!” he asks, voice deep and gruff with anger as he keeps a hold on her shoulders. For once, she’s grateful he’s holding her, because his hands on her shoulders mean that she’s here, she’s alive, she’s not falling towards the rocks below. 

“I wanted to look outside, and the window was fogged-“ she tries, but even as the words fall from her lips, she knows it’s stupid. Her stupid desire to smell the salt air and look at the moonlight on the sea nearly got her killed. She’s survived this harsh life so far, and what was going to kill her? The damn moonlight and her own grief.

“I’d thought you smarter than that,” he tells her, voice still low but not as gruff or angry. 

“I would have been fine if you hadn’t scared me,” she snaps back, ripping her hands from his shoulders and staring up into the dark slits of his helmet. She reaches up to brush away the tears that have frozen on her cheeks, huffing. “If you hadn’t barged in here and demanded what I was doing, I wouldn’t have slipped!” 

There’s a scoff from beneath the helm, and she’s let go. She watches as he reaches up to unclasp the cloak that had been returned to him, and her breath hitches as he wraps it around her. It’s heavy and warm, smelling of musk and metal as her hands immediately come to the edge to hold it closed. 

“You’re shaking,” the knight says simply, passing her. She hears the squeak of the closing window, and stares out at the darkened room as he latches and locks them shut. The sound of the waves crashing below is cut off, leaving only their breathing and the crackle of the fireplace. 

“It wouldn’t do for you to die before your royal guard lover could come save you,” the knight says harshly, and Rey turns to see him gathering the sketchbooks, setting them on a nearby table with care. 

“Guard lover?” she spits, her blood running cold as she stomps towards him as best as she can with bare feet. “Poe is not my lover.” 

The words fall from her lips without thinking, and she stops, her hands tightening on the edges of the cloak as she watches the knight stop, two of the sketchbooks in his hands hovering just above the pile. Something in that sentence made him stop. Rey watches with a rapidly beating heart as he sets the books down carefully.   
And then he’s storming past her, the air moving with him and rustling the hair around her face as he bursts through the door, not even bothering to close it behind him as the candles all extinguish at once and leave her in darkness. 

She’s grateful that the clouds have shifted, because the moonlight illuminates her way out of the library and back to the main corridors. The cloak shields her from the cold of the halls, though her toes are cold on the stone floors. She’s still shaking a little, the fear of falling not quite having left her even as she feels the solid stone beneath her feet. 

She can hear the ticking of a clock somewhere, can hear the whistling of the sea breeze against the windows. 

_Poe is not my lover._

She nearly stops, but instead just slows her pace, her mind hooked on why in the hell she’d insisted that he wasn’t, and so vehemently. 

He’s … he’s not, though, is he?

For as sweet as his kiss was, she can’t imagine receiving it every day. She can’t imagine waiting for him to return from his rounds, a babe on her hip and a roast cooking on the spit. She can’t imagine not moving, not going outside and exploring the world around her. Poe’s dedicated to his position, and will no doubt become a Captain soon. He can’t leave, he can’t explore as she wishes to. He can’t come with her to the seaside or the isles in the south, or the rolling green hills to the east she’s heard so much of. 

He could be her lover, she supposes, as she tightens her grip on the warm cloak that smells of another man. But she’s not sure she wants him to be.

There’s no sign of the knight, or of Hux as she makes her way back to the room. She does notice that when she steps inside, though, it’s already warm, the fire crackling and spitting far beyond what Hux could coax it to. So he’s been here. Perhaps this is his apology for leaving her in the dark in the middle of the library. 

She leaves the cloak on the seat at the vanity, much warmer now than it was before. Still, there’s a sense of loss that comes with taking it off, the weight of the heavy fabric having comforted her despite who it belonged to. 

-

The letters are brittle things, the ink faded and paper worn after being read over and over and over. These escaped the fire, the handwriting looser than his mother’s perfect cursive. 

He looks over Poe’s well wishes, based on the lies told of his marrying some princess in the southeast where the water’s blue and clear and the buildings shining white. The guard hopes he’s happy with her, hopes they make beautiful children, asks for him to send him some seashells or something in the first few letters. 

By the ones dated a year ago, he asks only that Ben write back. 

Six months ago, and it’s a plea to not forget him. 

The knight runs a hand through his hair, leaning heavily on his palm as he looks at the parchment the man no doubt bought from his wages, the letters his mother sent with her own. Poe must have given them to her to send. And the brilliant woman she is, she agreed, knowing he would never toss them as he tosses hers. 

Of course he would love the thief. Of course he would fall for the bright, smart, beautiful girl the knight just left in the dark. Of course he would love her. He’d treat her well, too, give her a home and provide for her so she doesn’t have to risk her life to steal from a fairytale. 

Of course they’d be together. 

A part of him wants to tear all the letters up, throw them in the fire just to watch them curl up and turn black, but he knows he can’t. He’d regret it the moment he went to rip them, and he’d never forgive himself if he watched them turn to ash. So instead he folds them up as carefully as he’d unfolded them, slipping them back into the box he’s kept on his mantle for years now.


	11. the garden.

The storm threw him off course. With the roads muddy and the sky dark, he’d had to stop and wait an entire day for the water to let up. He has the skills of the guard to thank for his little camp, a tarp pulled tight between a few trees to keep the water off of his small fire. BB snuffles often, her flanks covered in a warm wool blanket to keep her from feeling the chill of the northern rain. 

“I know,” Poe says forlornly, looking out towards the dark shadow of the mountains. The castle is long before them, but they are a guide, a reassurance that he is heading the way he’s supposed to. North.

He will need to go east, eventually, towards the cliffs and the ocean the king so often crosses to explore new lands and bring back things Leia so often makes him return, or sell.

Poe smiles a bit at the thought, poking the fire. The King and Queen, though they have their differences, obviously love each other very much. Every time the King returns from a voyage, no matter how long, the Queen is always there to great him. A few words, curt and sharp, before there are smiles, and an embrace.

For a moment, he allows himself an impossible dream. Rey, standing in the doorway of a little cottage in the countryside. Him, returning from his shift at the guard. Two, maybe three small children rushing past her towards him. Their age, their sex doesn’t matter – he can see mops of curly, dark brown hair, though. Perhaps one head bearing chestnut waves mixed with auburn, bearing their mother’s smile and warm brown eyes. 

It’s sinfully easy to imagine, but then again, most everything is. It’s bringing it to life that is difficult. And he knows this fantasy is impossible.

For years, he’s heard Rey speak of wanting to explore. Of wanting to board one of the King’s ships and see what’s out there. He has no desire to explore, wanting to protect the city and those he loves. He has a duty, one he pledged years ago. A duty to the crown, and more specifically, to the Queen. To protect the people of the kingdom, and to do whatever she asks of him. 

And if that is to stay, then he must stay. 

He told Finn he would follow Rey anywhere. And that’s all romantic and good, in his head. But in practice, it’s impossible. He can’t leave Finn, he can’t leave Queen Leia. 

Frowning, Poe bites into an apple. It’s mealy, but the juice is sweet, and so he’ll eat it. The storm is lightening, the mix of rain and sleet not so deafening on his makeshift roof. 

Rey … Rey isn’t a candle, easily snuffed out, easily contained. Rey is a wildfire, all consuming and hard to put out, if not impossible. She could be a housewife, he supposes, but why restrict her to four walls when she prefers none?

His chewing slows as he looks up to the northern sky, the clouds that way opening up just enough that the light of the stars is visible in the distance. He sits for a moment, apple dangling from his fingers as he watches the grey clouds move away to reveal an ink-black sky. 

No, he thinks. He won’t keep her like that, a bird in a cage when she so longs to fly. To be a wife, to bear children goes against everything she wishes for. At least, everything she wishes for right now. 

Maybe … maybe one day, she will want to settle, he thinks as he takes another unsatisfying bite. And so he will wait. 

He will wait.

-

“How do I get to the gardens from here?”

Hux doesn’t respond to her question for a good few moments, instead unloading the breakfast cart with a precision she’s only seen with a few of the more focused guards under Queen Leia. He remains quiet, the clinking of the silver plates and utensils the only sounds filling her ears. She has the same bread again, the sweet and eggy kind she’s come to be fond of, and she notices a few slices of hard cheese on the side, as well. There’s an apple, as usual, as well as tea. Her stomach cramps with hunger, but the pain is far from what she felt on the streets. 

She stares at the spread before her, and something in her chest clenches at the idea of leaving this food behind someday very soon.

“Why would you want to go there?” Hux asks in his dull, flat tone that suggests she’s an idiot. “Only those damned roses are blooming, everything else is dead or quickly dying.”

“I’ve been inside for more than a fortnight now, forgive me if I want to get some fresh air.”

“There are windows you could open.”

“Every time I do open one, both you and your master seem to think I’ll be jumping from it,” Rey says, standing and crossing to the table. She pauses when she sees the bottom tier of the cart. It’s a pile of garments, it seems, or perhaps blankets. “What’s that?” 

Hux stares at her for a moment before he looks down to where she’s looking. “Of course the thief would have keen eyes,” he mutters as he bends and pulls the perfectly folded fabric from the cart. Rey stares at the blue velvet on top, the crackling of the fire and the clicking of his boots echoing in the vast room as he walks towards her and offers it to her. Beneath it, she can see another shift, the same cream as the one she’s wearing now. 

“He expressed concern for your lack of warmth,” Hux says, an edge of exasperation in his voice. “He had me bring these from the rooms of the lady who last resided in this castle.”

“The lady in yellow,” Rey answers immediately, and she can see a flash of something in his eyes. It’s too quick for her to get a good look, but there’s a hardness that remains, and he nods stiffly. 

“Yes,” he says, his voice curt. He offers the two to her. “One is another shift, the other is a robe. Hopefully it will prevent you from becoming ill again. For a woman who survived the North on her own, your body is weak.”

“A lack of food, water, and warmth for days on end tends to weaken anyone, man, woman, or other,” Rey snaps back as she takes the robe and shift. “… but give him my thanks.”

The words come from her unbidden. Give him her thanks? For what? For being concerned? For giving her the clothes of a woman who is no doubt long gone? She has no idea why she just said that, but she looks down at the beautiful robe, seeing gold embroidery and a great attention to detail. The blue fabric has been textured, pleated and folded and ironed in such a way that moves like the water crashing against the cliffs below. No doubt she’s holding more than her body’s weight in gold, and she stares at the garment in awe. With the utmost care, she runs her fingertips over the velvet, soft as butter and warm.

“I’ll be sure to tell him.”

There’s something in Hux’s voice that sounds almost amused, almost warm, and she looks up to see him putting away the tongs, the lid to the platter, the box of tea. She opens her mouth to ask, but decides against it, instead watching him as he moves to leave. 

Her question of how to get to the gardens goes unanswered, but she knows she will figure it out. The castle may be a maze of passageways and corridors, but she knows there has to be a way out to the garden somewhere. There has to be. 

The sunlight filtering through the windows is grey, but it’s still sun. The snow and sleet has moved to the southwest, if it’s moved inland. She knows that much.   
The new shift is slightly thicker than the floral-printed one she wore before, but in the same style. There are still laces that need to be tightened from her navel up to her collar, and the sleeves are still too short, but it is thicker, and she’s grateful for the extra warmth as she pulls the robe on over top. Immediately she’s enveloped in softness, and she turns her head to tuck her nose against her shoulder. Roses, she decides. That was what she smelled when she unfolded it. Roses, and something exotic she can’t quite place. Must, too, no doubt from age, but the sweetness of the woman before her remains. 

She wonders what her clothes smell like. Musk and sour sweat and dust, most likely. She doesn’t even know where they are, Hux having taken them away. A hopeful, optimistic sliver of her hopes he’s mending them, or at least cleaning them. The realistic rest of her already knows he tossed them out with the trash. 

Huffing in irritation, she walks over to the wardrobe. He left her boots, at the very least, and for that she’s grateful. They’re barely worn, even though they bruised the skin beneath her toenails and made her toes themselves red and stubbed, thanks to the excess of room in the top. They’re a bit too big, but they protect her well enough. There are no rags to stuff along the toes and the heels, no fabric to make them ‘smaller’, but she shoves her feet in them anyway, lacing them up before she wraps the robe tightly around herself and walks out towards the main corridor. 

She’d adventured to the library as the sun was setting, so she didn’t get the chance to see the castle in all its sunlit glory. In truth, she thinks, there isn’t much of it. The sunlight pours in from the windows and warms the dark grey-black stone of the castle itself, but it does little to lift the mood.

Six years, Hux had said. Six years in a grey castle with grey light even on the best of days, and a grey sea just below. No wonder the knight is snappish. No wonder Hux acts as though he hasn’t relieved himself in a week. To live? To be happy, well and truly happy? In a place like this? She can’t imagine. 

Then again, she supposes trying to be happy in the slums of the kingdom isn’t so easy either. 

She tries to think of the sun, tries to think of the green grass and blue sea as Hux had said. The murals on the walls give her somewhat of a picture, but as she’s never seen the sea, it’s hard for her mind to conjure such a pretty sight.

She tries to think of the garden, bright and blooming, with the woman from the sketchbooks sitting amongst the roses, laughing sweetly. That is easier to imagine, and she smiles a bit as she walks away from the library and towards what she assumes is the exit to the castle. Rey catches glimpses of stairwells, but none of them go down. She doesn’t want to go up, she wants to go down, and it takes another few moments of walking before she sees a small, spiraling set. A peak out the nearby window reveals, through the dirt and grime covering the glass, the fountain she’d seen her first night. It looks so much smaller and sadder through the dirty window, the marble cracked and broken, dead leaves and muck filling the empty pool. 

Why would she want to go down there, Hux had asked. She wonders why herself, but the promise of fresh air is too tempting to ignore, and so she takes her chances walking down the little stairwell. 

The door at the end creaks as it opens, but it does open, and for that she’s grateful. She can hear the crunch of dead leaves under the thick soles of her boots, and the crisp, winter air cuts her in the face. Her eyes water as she feels the bitter cold against her cheeks, and she shivers as she steps out into the garden. 

Hux was right. There’s nothing but dead plants, and broken statues from an age long before she was born. She can see what remains of a metal trellis, can see out farther to the right where there was once a grand hedge maze. But it’s less of a maze, she supposes, if she can see straight through the dead branches to the other side. Still, she tries to imagine children running through it like the children of the city weave their way through the stalls in the marketplace. She tries to imagine their mothers watching as they play, tries to imagine the life that lived here before. 

It’s near impossible.

The fountain is so much duller than she remembered. Of course, in the dark of the night, she couldn’t see much, but she does remember seeing cherubs. And there are cherubs, surrounding a woman with flowing curls and a long gown. Rey recognizes the point of her chin, the pert shape of her nose, the soft smile upon her face. It’s the woman from the sketchbooks, from the murals. 

No doubt in its day it was a thing of beauty, the craftsmanship incredibly and the marble gleaming. But now dirt has collected in the nooks and crannies, dried rivulets of dirty water creating tear tracks down the cheeks of the statues. The smell of rotting leaves and old water makes her nose crinkle, and she looks out to the rest of the garden, seeing death and despair everywhere. 

The marketplace wasn’t particularly bright. It was busy, and she supposes travellers would marvel at it, but after more than 14 years of knowing the ins and outs, it doesn’t make her excited anymore. 

Still, she thinks, as she walks along the stone path covered with the dead leaves of the flowers that once surrounded it. Anywhere would be better than here.

-

She finds her way out to the garden, because of course she does. Anywhere he doesn’t wish for her to go, she finds a way. She found his grandfather’s armor. She found his grandfather’s sketchbooks. She found his own room, and now she’s found the gardens where the roses she risked her life for are the only things blooming. 

“What do you see in her?”

Hux’s voice is tinged with contempt, but not as much as the knight had been expecting. He doesn’t turn to look at his companion, instead watching as the little thief walks through the old hedge maze, her fingers running along the dead leaves, no doubt to hear the crackling of them. 

“She has the force.”

“Does she?” Hux asks, his voice flat. “And you know this how?”

“Because if she didn’t, she would have died in that dungeon,” the knight replies. “You know that.”

“Did you consider the possibility that she’s just incredibly resilient?”

“There’s also the fact that she was able to enter my rooms through the side passage, which is locked with the force,” the knight replies, his voice low as he watches her hit a dead end in the maze. 

There’s the sound of footsteps beside him, and out of the corner of his eye he sees dark grey shoulders and a flash of orange hair. “Does she know?”  
“No,” the knight says quickly. “I don’t believe so.”

Hux doesn’t have a response for that, it seems, and the knight continues to watch as the thief back tracks and heads the other way, persistent in her path through the maze. He watches as she stops, trying to decide which way she’d just been, before continuing on the correct path. 

He hears the attendant go, his boots clacking on the marble floor of what once was the Queen’s chambers. This room has the best view of the gardens, and is one of the few the knight insists be cleaned regularly. He supposes it’s out of respect for his grandmother, for her beautiful possessions, that he insists upon it. He saw this room dusty before, sad and decaying, and he has no desire to see it that way again. 

The little thief hits a dead end again, and he watches her with guilt gnawing in his stomach. No doubt she thinks she's alone, no doubt she thinks herself safe from prying eyes, but he can't resist looking down at the woman. So small, but stronger than she knows. Both in physical strength, and in the power she possesses. He can't imagine how she survived for so long, can't imagine how she convinced her body to hold on for one more day, every single day. 

And still, she is beautiful. There are freckles upon her pale cheeks, no doubt from the sun of the marketplace he used to run through when he was a young child, a few gold coins tucked into his hand. She's slim, too slim, lacking the figure of the whores he saw occasionally when walking down the wrong alleyway. Hux had mentioned something about her cleverness, about her telling him she could either take or she could give, and she'd chosen to take. Good, the knight thinks. To be forced into such a life is unfortunate, and he pities and feels any woman who feels as though she has to sell her body to live. He knows his mother is attempting to make the lives of such women better, or at least she was when he left. 

He tries to think of the little thief standing in a doorway, her bodice loose, her shirt falling off of her shoulders, a smirk upon her face-

No. 

She's much better than that. Thief she may be, she is clever, and witty, and smart. And she is more powerful than any other force-user he's come across, more powerful than any of the children in his uncle's classes if she's survived this long. 

Something blooms in his chest, something he hasn't felt in years since he was the recipient of a firm clasp on the shoulder, the victim of a smirk as bright as sunshine, paired perfectly with warm brown eyes and dark, luscious curls. 

There are more rose bushes in the middle of the maze, and he can see the delight on her face even from so far away, even behind foggy windows. She gravitates towards the black petals immediately, her fingers stroking them. He has to wonder if she’s thinking about how much she could ask for them, how many she could get in her bag, how many she would need to live like a princess for the rest of her life. 

She’s just starting to press her face into the petals, no doubt to smell the sweet scent of the rose, when something startles her, and her gaze shifts towards the wall she had to climb over. Her entire frame tenses, and he watches as she steps backwards, almost into the thorny bush. “No,” he says, as though she can hear him, and then he feels the shift of his power, one of his ‘men’ going down, no doubt. 

An intruder. 

“Get her out of the gardens, put her in her room, I want her safe,” he growls, turning to find Hux already standing in the doorway, no doubt to alert him of the new thief. He grabs his helmet, his sword already on his hip as he rushes out into the main halls. 

-

She’s only just reached the middle of the maze, only just pressed her nose to the cool, silky petals of the black roses when she hears it. Some commotion with metal clashing and orders being shouted. She stills, her eyes going wide as she looks to the wall she climbed, wondering if whoever is approaching tried to do the same. 

“He’s ordered you to come inside.”

Hux’s voice carries on the wind, and she whips her head around to see him striding towards her, a heavy black wool cloak draped about his shoulders. “What’s going on?” she demands, already trying to figure out how to get out of the maze, going back the way she came, all the while keeping sight of his dark form through the bare branches. 

“Another intruder,” Hux explains, and through the bushes she can see him look up at the wall as she had. “One with more violent and dramatic tendencies.”

“Coming in broad daylight,” Rey adds. “Reckless.”

“Foolish,” Hux snorts as she finally makes her way out of the maze and joins him. Immediately his hand is on her back, guiding her back towards the door. 

“How many are there?”

“One. He must be completely stupid.”

“I was one,” Rey retorts as they make their way to the door, Hux opening it for her. It’s not much warmer inside the stairwell, but at least the cold breeze isn’t brushing her cheeks anymore. 

“You did not approach in broad daylight, nor did you attempt to fight the guards. All 20 of them,” Hux insists. “He ordered me to take you back to your room, but I know damn well that you’ll just wander off anyway, so I’ll only insist that you stay inside the castle, and on the upper levels until we get this sorted out.”

“What, killing a man who only wants a flower?” Rey snaps. 

“Not every thief who tries to steal a rose is as needing of it as you. You wanted one to pay for food and a roof over your head. Many want them for selfish reasons. You wanted one to survive. Therein lies the difference between you, and them, and how we deal with intruders.” 

Hux’s voice is sharp, his eyes flashing, and Rey stares at him for a moment before he turns on his heel and stalks off, no doubt to assist the black knight with disposing of the body or whatever it is he does to ‘deal with’ intruders. She stands and watches before she sees his dark form disappear around a corner, and then she just stands for another few heartbeats. Winter’s wind whistles through the cracks in the windows she’d looked through before, and she wraps the robe more tightly around her, looking down to see dead leaves collected along the velvet hem. 

I’ll have to pick them off, she thinks, but it will be a task for her hands, hopefully enough to busy her mind from thinking about whatever man was just quite possibly run through by the sword the knight carries on his hip. 

She’s turning, just barely taking a step back towards her room when she’s startled by the harsh ‘bang’ of an opening door hitting the wall. 

“For fuck’s sake, Ren, don’t tell me this will be our new trend. We barely have enough food for ourselves and your little thief, we don’t have enough for a new prisoner.”

A fire starts inside of her, a burst of anger at being called the knight’s little thief, but then she fully realizes what Hux said. A new trend? Having enough food for a new prisoner? 

She rushes as quietly as she can to the landing overlooking the entrance hall, seeing that the main door of the castle has been blown open, Hux going to close it. She just barely sees the black knight walking away, someone cradled in his arms. She catches a glimpse of dark curls and dark brown boots before the knight is turning down a set of steps, no doubt down to the dungeon. Hux protests as he follows his master, insisting that he’s just a thief, they don’t have enough to provide for two, for fuck’s sake, Ren, why don’t you just kill him?

Ren. 

The knight’s name is Ren, Rey thinks, as she listens to the echoing footsteps of both master and servant, her hands finding the cool marble of the landing. Ren.

And now she knows where her exploration will lead her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 Because my roommate wanted me to put a heart in the end notes


End file.
